


Scary World Theory

by charlesanthonybruno



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Surveillance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesanthonybruno/pseuds/charlesanthonybruno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when Mark is seventeen. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that it starts when Mark is twelve and gets his first laptop as a birthday present from his parents.</p><p>Or the one where Mark’s life is a giant social experiment and it only gets worse once he finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scary World Theory

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a kinkmeme prompt posted AGES ago. Prompt is very long and can be found [here](http://tsn-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/10450.html?thread=20439506#t20439506).  
> While this story is very dear to me, I haven't worked on it in over a year, and am posting it for archiving purposes mostly. Part II is partly written, and can be read on livejournal on the kinkmeme [here](http://tsn-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/10450.html?thread=20495826#t20495826) (starts at Re: SECOND FILL - Scary World Theory 10a/?). Posting it here unfinished bugs me, but if I don't manage to finish it properly, I will add it as a second chapter.  
> Being a complete nobody, I do not have a beta reader. I have done my best to correct and edit as best as I could, but errors will have slipped through. I apologise for that.
> 
> WARNING: this fic was largely inspired by The Truman Show, and 1984. It isn't happy, deals with themes that can make you uncomfortable, and has some messed up moments. Characters may act in a way that you don't approve of (me either, for that matter), due to circumstances. I tried to make it as realistic as possible, and to avoid over-the-top drama, though.
> 
> Anyway, I'm really bad at this author's note thing, and also at making people want to read my fics, but please give it a try it's actually awesome maybe?...!!!

 

**PART I**

 

Mark wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock ringing happily in the emptiness of his room. He turns it off and sits up slowly, eyes still closed against the morning light filtering in through the curtains. One by one, he hears the doors of his small apartment unlock (it had taken some time to get used to it, but now he barely pays any attention to the sound and what it means) and, a few seconds later, the monitor in front of his bed comes on with a faint popping sound. On the screen, a fat little lady greets him with a cheerful smile.

_Good morning, Mr. Zuckerberg. This morning, you will be working in building 4 to help supervise the arrival of twelve new participants. Your presence is required at 9:00. It is 7:30. We wish you a very nice day!_

Mark groans something unintelligible, and the monitor goes off as he gets up to open the curtains. He blinks, stretches and locks himself in the bathroom (the bathroom door is the only one he can lock and unlock manually, and it had taken a few months to convince them that it would be fine, it wouldn't allow him to do anything dangerous, no, he wouldn't run away, the room had _no window_.)

At 8:00, he is dressed and ready to go. He grabs a hoodie and leaves the apartment. He'll be early, but perhaps it'll prevent his colleagues from throwing him suspicious glances or whispering behind his back. Not that he minds, he honestly couldn't care less, but he doesn't understand why they still act this way. It both amazes and annoys him. Sometimes, he has to fight the urge to shout _Come on, it's been two years, get over it!_ but mostly, he doesn't think about it. If they intend to keep being like this around him, they shouldn't have let him join in the first place. But they did, so let them deal with the consequences, he'll continue on with his life whether they like it or not.

It's chilly outside as he waits for the bus (there was no way they would let him have his own car, he never even bothered to ask), and he briefly wishes he had put on proper shoes instead of the usual socks and flip flops. Shoulders hunched and hands far down in his pockets, he sighs and hopes that the bus will arrive shortly.

At 8:37, he reaches building 4 and is instructed to go to the room C-28 (" _First floor, second door on your left._ ") Just as he thought, the room is empty when he enters, but the files containing the data on the newcomers have already been prepared and are spread out on the front desk. Mark doesn't bother to take a look at them. He's only here because they have to keep him busy, not because he's actually expected to work. He might have to answer a few practical questions about the life in the city, since he's the only one who has experienced it, but that's pretty much it. A few minutes later, as he's staring out through the window, someone comes in. Mark turns slightly to acknowledge whoever that is.

"You're early," is the man’s greeting, said with a faintly reproachful tone that Mark is used to hear when someone is late. He represses a smirk.

He's seen the guy before, a handful of times. From what Mark remembers, what the man thinks of him has always been written clearly on his face. Even if he supposes that the cold tone and sneering looks he receives are meant to make him feel ill at ease or somewhat ashamed of himself ("For what?" he always wonders), Mark finds it more entertaining than anything. They're all trying _so hard_ to exclude him that, would he not be busy ignoring them, he's sure he would find it almost endearing. He fakes an unconvincing tired smile.

"I haven't slept well recently," he lies.

The man snorts and Mark almost hears " _serves you right_ ". Instead, the man chooses not to answer, and takes one of the files on the desk in clear dismissal of Mark's presence. End of the morning greetings, Mark thinks cheerfully.

Another good day in the offing.

At 12:37, he's back in his office. It isn't really an office and it isn't his at all, but Mark finds it easier to call it his office rather than "this large room with desks and shelves that I share with twelve people as insignificant as me." It's in this room that he's been working for the last two years.

His job is easy: organise and classify all the observation reports that are sent to his computer, print a copy for each and every one of them, put them away in the shelves (" _The files are arranged by date, project and location. See here? May 2003, project #23, Zone 2. Got it? Don't mess up._ "), and transfer the digital version to the main archive.

If someone were to ask for his opinion, Mark would say that he isn't sure about the necessity of the task, but no one else ever comes to this room, and he's stopped wondering about hows and whys a long time ago (no one cares about his opinion, no need to waste time having one.)

Most of what he's seen since his unexpected recruitment doesn't make much sense to him, anyway, and the few things he has understood haven't made him want to know more. Sometimes, the names on the front page look familiar and a face flash briefly through his mind, but he ignores it. It isn't as if he could go back to tell them, anyway.

 

As expected, the morning was uneventful. He spent most of his time ogling one of the newcomers (a small brunette with high cheekbones, thin pink lips, and a white shirt that hinted at what looked like a fantastic pair of breasts), and trying not to look bored. No one asked him anything for the whole three hours of the meeting, nor even bothered to look at him.

He sits down at his desk with a sigh and takes his lunch out of his suitcase (he actually doesn't carry anything else in it, hadn't even wanted a suitcase in the first place, but he had been frowned at when he had expressed his reluctance and had not pressed the matter any further. Something else to put on his list of things he would never understand, he figured.)

He used to eat with the others in the small cafeteria down the corridor, but the place and number of people around him did not change anything: no matter where he was or who he was with, he was still that Mark kid who had caught them and whom they were now forced to deal with.  
After two weeks, he had given up and started eating in his office; it felt less lonely to be alone when he was on his own rather than in the middle of a crowd.

At 13:00, his co-workers start to come back. Some of them nod vaguely in his direction, a few even mumble a quick "Good morning" and, by 13:06, everyone is back to organising, and printing, and putting files away.

At 19:57, Mark opens the door of his apartment, and tosses his suitcase carelessly against the hallway wall. As soon as the door closes behind him, he hears the familiar click of the lock falling shut. "No going out tonight," he mutters dully.

He slips out of his flip flops, takes off his hoodie, and shuffles to the bedroom. He changes into a pair of sweatpants, wanders to the kitchen and starts rummaging vacantly through the cupboards. Mark can cook. He's actually quite good at it when he needs to. But food has never been something terribly exciting for him, and, since his move from the other side of the screen, he tends to live on snacks and quickly cooked food.  
The first year, he tried to keep a certain balance, and cooked real meals on special occasions, but ended up throwing most of the food away; there was no one to eat it. After that, he stopped trying. He was not home anymore, there was no use in pretending. He settles for a can of tuna and a red bull, all set for an evening as dull as the rest of his day.

As soon as he sits down at the kitchen counter, though, the small monitor on the fridge comes on and a ridiculously cheery music fills the room. Mark stills and turns his head to look at the screen, frowning. A small message is blinking in bold, green letters.

**Mr. Zuckerberg, we have a special announcement for you. Please wait while the information loads.**

His frown deepens. This is unusual.

He doesn't dwell on the fact that only the monitor in the kitchen has gone on (even if they have assured him that he was now part of their team, finding out after seventeen years that he spent his whole life under the constant surveillance of hidden cameras has made him slightly paranoid), but the message is certainly unexpected. And the music is new, too. And since when does the "information" need to load? All their bulletins are pre-recorded.

Mark turns completely towards the screen, crosses his arms and eyes the monitor warily, waiting for the message to change.

After a few seconds, the music stops to be replaced by interferences, and Mark thinks he hears fumbling noises: papers rustling, something being dragged on the floor, muffled voices. He straightens in his chair, apprehension creeping up his spine.

Then, the monitor goes completely white, all sounds disappear, and, after a slight twitch, the fat little lady is there, sitting at her usual table, in her usual purple cardigan, smiling that usual fake smile of hers, hair tied up in its usual bun.

Mark slumps slightly.

 _Congratulations, Mr. Zuckerberg, you have been promoted!_ she chirps merrily. _Your new shift starts at 21:00 and ends at 5:00am. All information about your position has been forwarded to your inbox. Please, make sure to check it as soon as possible. Someone will pick you up at 20:30. It is 20:12. We wish you a good evening._

There's a bit of visual static, more fumbling noises, and the monitor goes off abruptly. In the distance, he hears the click sound of the door unlocking.

For a second, Mark doesn’t move, and the only thought that stands out in his mind is that the lady’s voice sounded odd. Then, the contents of the message finally sink in and he stands up awkwardly.

He walks to the living-room, turns his laptop on and sits on the desk chair without a sound, glancing quickly at the clock on the wall. He needs to change back into proper clothes. He gets up and goes to his room. When he sits back down at the desk in the same clothes he had put on in the morning, it's 20:17, and the computer is ready. A few clicks later, Mark opens his inbox.

 

 

> You have ( **1** ) new message(s).
> 
> _From:_ admin@tsncorp.com  
>  _Subject:_ Mark Zuckerberg Job Info
> 
> ( **click here to read this message** )

Mark clicks and waits for the page to load. He glances at the clock again. Another red bull would probably be a smart move. He gets up to get another can.

The content of the email is rather to the point:

 

 

 

> _Mr Zuckerberg,  
>  due to unexpected circumstances, you are to replace Mr Arthur Clarke on his watch tonight. You will be alone for the entirety of the task, so make sure to read the attached file before starting. All details should be in it._

 

Mark has only received a couple of emails since he arrived. You'd think that communication and general use of computers and the Internet would be a lot more common and sophisticated, given the circumstances, but it isn't.

Sometimes, it's hard not to wonder how he has been the only one to find them out. This whole thing is complete bullshit. He does appreciate the blunt tone of the message, though. He's especially amused by the use of _should_ followed by absolutely no indication that, should any necessary information be missing, there is anything he can do about it.

He downloads the attached documents and prints it out. It's a report just like the ones he organises every day. The name on the front page reads _Chris Hughes_. Doesn't sound familiar to Mark, which makes sense. They wouldn't send him to watch people he knows; the point being, after all, perfectly objective observation.

It's a small file as far as Mark can see, the guy must be new. Maybe he'll have time to read it in the car. He glances quickly at the first pages and notices the address.

That's familiar.

He thinks for a second and remembers a tiny blue house he used to walk past on his way to school. Mrs Mitchell, was that her name? Elderly woman with grey hair and dull, brown eyes. Mark has no real memories of her, except for a couple of times when she'd been out gardening and they'd nodded to each other the way neighbours do. He doesn't know how old she was then, but if someone else is now living there, well, there can't be many reasons for it.  
He pushes it out of his mind.

That was before, it doesn't have anything to do with him anymore.

Outside, a car honks. Mark grabs the printed pages and puts them in a empty folder lying on his desk, doesn't bother with the suitcase. He puts his hoodie back on and leaves.

As he climbs into the car, though, a different thought crosses his mind, and he slows for a second, brows furrowed.

The lady on screen. For the first time in two years, she sounded real.

Huh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It starts when Mark is seventeen.

Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that it starts when Mark is twelve and gets his first laptop as a birthday present from his parents.

Laptops and personal computers aren't all that common in the city. There is a couple at school and Mark knows his dad uses one at work, but very few people have one at home, so Mark is excited. It's a cheap little thing, no doubt that his parents are expecting his interest to fade within half a year. Except it doesn't.

The more time he spends on his machine, the more he's interested in what it can do and what _he_ can make it do. His laptop makes sense to him. More than the other kids at school who always talk about things Mark genuinely doesn't care about. Hell, it even makes more sense than school itself, where you learn about the history of the city, the way the city works and why the city is great and how you are an essential part of it.

Sometimes there are chapters about things form outside (they have a whole week dedicated to Harvard, that prestigious university that every student should aspire to attend and should work very hard for), but mostly it's all about the city and it's, well, it's boring as fuck. Mark likes where he lives alright, but he _lives_ there, he doesn't need to spend his every waking hour studying it on top of it.

The Internet is slow, but he doesn't think twice about it. The Internet is slow everywhere and everybody knows that it's only fun the first few times, anyway. Mark was excited the first time he got to go on the Internet at school, but once you've been it loses its magic.

The thing is, despite everyone making a big deal of it, there isn't much on it. Every business, institution and association in the city has a website, there are a couple of websites with games on them, a search engine, and this message system that allows you to send emails to other people who have Internet access. That's pretty much it. Given that home computers aren't the norm and that Mark doesn't exactly have a lot of friends to send messages to, it gets old fast.

He does visit all the websites, though, all three hundreds and seventy two of them. Even the one about the Mosman Senior Bachelor Backgammon Club with the terrible animated background that made his eyes hurt a little. It takes a couple of weeks, browsing the web, then Mark loses interest and focuses on the laptop itself. And _this_ keeps his attention.

He tries things, reads, looks for more information, tries more things, finds out about functionalities and possibilities that nobody has ever told him about. It's interesting, and great and it makes so much _sense_.

He keeps it quiet, though. Individual hobbies, while not actively frowned upon, aren't exactly encouraged either. It's the main city policy: talk to people, make friends, interact with your neighbours and all that. We are one big happy family and we should all bond with each other!

People tell him, now, sometimes. “You must have hated it”, they say with a vicious gleam in their eyes that looks a little like hope. It makes him laugh. Dumb fucks.

The truth is, Mark never hated it. It's how he'd been raised. So maybe his personality didn't always make it easy to be friendly and sociable, but that was how things were. Make friends and interact was a habit as ingrained as his mother's “Wash your hands before eating!” It tastes bitter in his mouth when he thinks about it now, now that he knows _why_.  
They might be a bunch of idiots who can't use computers and got caught by a teenage boy, but they sure know how to handle a crowd and have it eating out of their hands.

So Mark will give them that even if it costs to admit it: he never hated it.

 

As a teenager, Mark doesn't have as many friends, acquaintances, and relationships as the average teenage boy, but he has some. He's smarter than most people his age, but he doesn't mind people not being as smart as him. He doesn't mind people being dumb, even, if you were to ask him. The school psychologist asks him once, when he's fourteen.

“Do you feel that your intelligence is a barrier between you and your classmates, Mark?” she says, all concern and attention. He shrugs and says: “No. I'm really not that smart, I just don't talk a lot.” He already knows at the time that it's lie, but he feels that he shouldn't boast about it.

(Years later, he realises that it was probably the best answer he could have given and congratulates himself. You don't increase surveillance on someone who unconsciously admits that he is average and, thus, not a threat. You leave him alone with his laptop and only keep a distracted eye on him.)

So, no, Mark doesn't mind people being dumb. What he minds is people being obvious about it. Call him an elitist asshole if you like, but he's simply being rational. How do you befriend someone who makes a point of proclaiming loudly and proudly that they have no idea what you're talking about and doesn't even try to understand when you start to explain? Kind of a conversation killer.

He explains that, a couple of times, mostly by using expressions like _diverging interests_ and _difficulty to get my point across_ (they like this one a lot, it's self deprecating, it's great, poor Mark really just needs some help) and after that he's mostly left alone with his two friends, three on good days.

This is how it goes for five years: Mark is an average, if slightly introverted, teenage boy; he has a couple of friends, practises fencing every day after school, and likes spending time on his laptop. He gets his first girlfriend at roughly the same age as everyone else, has his first alcoholic drink at a party when he's 15.  
He is a regular subject, there is nothing about him that is worthy of special attention.

Then, on a Saturday night at 4am when he is seventeen, Mark Zuckerberg types a combination of characters on his harmless, cheap laptop keyboard, and somewhere, on the other side of a screen, someone suddenly realises that they really, really should have paid more attention.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The car ride is uneventful. Mark greets the driver with a sound that can be interpreted as a good evening just as much as I hope your wife hates you. He doesn't get a reply, so maybe he should have tried harder on the good evening.

He reads the report. Chris Hughes arrived a month ago, he's almost the same age as Mark and studies literature. He doesn't have any particular health issues, settled into his new house without any problems, introduced himself to his neighbours, and has already made a couple of acquaintances that could very quickly become close friends ( _names listed below_ says the document.) He has no bad habits, no hidden vice, doesn't so much as smoke. There is a _is openly homosexual_ comment written in italics so Mark guesses it's probably supposed to be relevant, but he doesn't pay much attention to it.

Chris Hughes is squeaky-clean. They would never have called Mark to watch him otherwise.

He should have brought some red bull, this is going to be dull.

Twenty minutes later, the car stops. The driver doesn't say a word to indicate that Mark must get out, but he turns off the engine. Mark takes it as his cue to grab his file and exit the vehicle. He doesn't bother with a good night/I hope your children die in a volcano.

To his surprise, he finds himself in front of a house.

The thing is, before guessing bits and pieces of the bigger picture, the watching is the first thing Mark found out about and it is what's stayed with him the most ever since.  
Despite all the things that happened, the drastic changes in his life, and his certainty that he would never be let anywhere near that aspect of the –the what? giant experiment? Even now it's impossible to put a word on whatever this is-- he's never been able to stop himself from thinking about it, obsessing over it.

What is it like? A group of people wearing lab coats gathered in front of a row of screens, staring and jolting down notes on every single move the clueless figure on screen makes? It sounded ridiculous then, sounds ridiculous now, but how can you not _wonder_?

Standing in front of this regular, comfortable looking house, Mark finds himself strangely disappointed. It looks like every other house he's seen in his life. Talk about anti-climactic.

The feeling only lasts a second before he remembers that in this house, in this charming, innocuous house is a room that must be equipped with monitors that see and record someone's whole life. And in front of those screens, there must be a man or a woman who watches and doesn't let anything get past them, someone who knows absolutely everything about their subject: their deepest secrets, their fears, the first thing they do when they wake up, the last thing they do before going to bed, how they like their coffee, the colour of their toothbrush.

Things that a best friend might not know, things that even a lover might not know.

Things that someone used to know about _him_.

He goes cold and stands still, unable to move forward. What the fuck is he doing here?

 

The front door opens, startling him, and out comes a middle-aged man wearing the last thing Mark is expecting: a bright, welcoming smile.

“Mark!” the man says warmly, advancing towards Mark with arms wide open, as if he is honest to God hoping to go for a hug.

Mark quickly backs away and somehow it makes the man smile wider, not disgruntled for a second. He drops his arms, though, slips his hands in the pockets of his trousers, casual.

“I'm glad you could make it,” he nods in what Mark takes as both a greeting and a thank you.

“I didn't have a choice, did I?”

The man's eyes narrow at that, but his smile doesn't fade. If anything it gets even brighter, sharper.

“No, indeed, you did not.”

A beat.

“Come in? It's the second door on your right.”

He steps sideways in an exaggerated gesture to give Mark enough space to pass without needing to get too close to him and chuckles at Mark's unimpressed glare.

Inside, the house looks just as unthreatening as it does from the outside, but Mark doesn't let it fool him. The second door on his right after he comes in doesn't look any different than the others, except when he goes to push it open he has to try twice to get it to move. Once it finally swings open, Mark notices that it's twice, maybe three times thicker than a regular interior door.

“What's it made of?” he asks with a sneer, “Concrete?”

He is only met by a satisfied grin as the man comes in behind him. Mark opts for solid core steel. He stares at it for a second, desperate to keep observing the door and try to guess what materials it's made of to avoid turning around and looking at the rest of the room.

Because he's in. It's the room, _that_ room, and he is in it.

“Oh, Mark, “ says the man, the voice moving around Mark as the man paces the space leisurely. “Come on, now, don't be difficult. I know you're curious. Don't you want to take a look?”

And fuck, he _does_ , he wants to take a look because he's been dreaming about this ever since he found out. But never, never in a situation where he was _with_ them, never when he was kindly escorted in by someone who had attempted to welcome him with a _hug_. It feels all wrong. His skin is crawling and his heart is beating erratically --not faster, just wrong.

What the _fuck_ is he doing here.

“Ahhh, I see,” the voice doesn't sound warm anymore, it sounds teasing, mocking. “Afraid of bad memories, aren't we?”

Mark greets his teeth. Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him, _fuck him_. He turns around and looks.

What he's faced with then, is both exactly what Mark thought it would be and nothing at all like he was expecting. It takes up a whole wall, just as he'd imagined, but having it in front of his eyes, each monitor casting a dim, blue-ish light on the huge control table in front of it is so far from anything Mark could have prepared himself for. Distantly, he hears his seventeen year-old self let out a disdainful snort. _Guess I can keep calling it The Wall. How disappointing._ He forces all personal thoughts and memories to the back of his mind and focuses on studying the installation.

The wall (the _Wall_. He can't believe that his limited imagination created a picture that would turn out to be almost spot on) is entirely covered by screens. It curves inwards on the far sides for optimal viewing of each of them. They're organised by rooms, which seems obvious, and placed according to the floor plan of the house, Mark notices after touring the entire place by going from one screen to the one next to it. You could draw a path on the floor from the front door to the backdoor via every single room and it would show up on the Wall unbroken.

“Clever, isn't it? I knew you'd notice right away.”

Mark had almost forgotten that he was not alone, and he tears his eyes away from the flickering wall to stare at the man instead. It occurs to him that he doesn't know what his name is and that the man hasn't given any indication that he's going to offer it any time soon. He doesn't look like he's expecting Mark to ask, either, and Mark isn't certain he wants to know anyway, so he stays quiet.

“It serves two main purposes, as you've probably already figured out,” the man keeps going. “First, it makes it easier to track your subject, obviously. You can literally follow them around without having to jump from one side of the wall to the other to always have them in your field of vision. Second, it's an excellent way to learn the layout of the house without needing to study the floor plans. Less than a week of observation and you could move inside this house as if you'd physically been sharing it with your subject the whole time! Isn't it great?”

Mark blinks. It _is_ clever. He feels sick and disgusted at himself when he realises how much sense it makes and how impressed he is by it. He clenches his jaw, keeps his mouth shut. Unsurprisingly, the man goes on, utterly unruffled.

“See, Mark, we do encourage a certain closeness between us and the subjects. The person you watch is your responsibility, and if you want to be as accurate as possible in your reports, if you want to do them justice by being as exact as possible, you need to _know_ them. And that includes knowing their environment as well as you know your own. Because when you watch someone, you learn them in and out and you care for them, you cannot _not_. And they, for all intents and purposes, are _yours_. Do you understand, Mark?”

There is a frightening intensity in the man's eyes, and a weight in his speech that Mark isn't entirely comfortable with. What does he expect from him? He's clearly expecting something, eyes sharp on Mark and smile all but gone, replaced with something darker, knowing.

Mark doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to deal with this shit. He wants to get the fuck out and go back to his boring desk with his boring twelve colleagues, and his boring flat where his laptop is and he can ignore all this. But he's not so stupid as to refuse to acknowledge that it's too late for that, so he takes the easy way out; he shrugs.

“Whatever. I thought this was only a replacement. Aren't I supposed to only be here tonight?”

The man's stare turns hard and judging but he's back to smiling before Mark has time to process it. There is pride in that smile that makes Mark feel as if he's just passed a test with flying colours. It's not a good feeling.

“Eager to start, I see. Good, good.” The man claps his hands together, probably trying to convey enthusiasm. He glances at his watch.

“Mr Hughes should be here within the next ten to fifteen minutes. That leaves you plenty of time to get ready. I would go over the control table with you but you won't need it, I don't think. If you do, I'm sure you can read the labels on the buttons as well as the next person and guess the rest by yourself, hm?”

There's condescension there. Mark doesn't bother with a reply.

“Where's the computer?”he asks instead.

For the first time since he opened the front door, the man seems genuinely taken aback. Mark feels viciously proud.

“I'm supposed to take notes, right?” he says, letting a sliver of disdain slips in his tone. He's allowed to be a petty asshole right now, he'll take his victories where he can get them.

“Oh,” the man blinks, recovering. “Oh, ahah, yes, I should have expected that. You and computers, right? Yes, yes. I'm afraid you'll have to do without.” He gestures to one corner of the control table on which lie a notepad and two pens.

Mark is so surprised he has to fight the urge to laugh. Seriously?

“Pens,” he says flatly, not caring that he sounds like an arrogant asshole anymore. “Nice.”

“Well,” the other replies curtly, disgust etched upon his face, “we both know where it leads when we let you roam free with a laptop.”

It's like a slap, like a punch in the gut. _Oh_ , Mark thinks. _I get it._ He can't believe it. His lips stretch into a smirk almost against his will.

“I know who you are,” he says with absolute certainty.

The man flinches, expression hard, and, yes, Mark sees it hidden deep in the angry press of his lips, buried under all the anger; there's humiliation.

“I don't recall mentioning my name.”

How is this happening. He must have volunteered, must have thought it would be amusing to force Mark to sit down in front of all those monitors and see him trembling, overwhelmed, trying to repress years of memories Mark thought were his but had never been.

“I wasn't referring to your name.”

In the silence that follows, Mark has no idea how he feels. He's never imagined this moment. Somehow, it never occurred to him that this could happen. He knows, rationally, that there was someone, one particular person, but he blocked it out, never even considered it.

He snorts, and it's a mean, ugly sound.

“How have you not been fired?”

The moment breaks and Mark is brutally brought back to the present by the sound of a lock being opened. He startles and turns instinctively towards the Wall. Someone is coming in. Mark recognises the light blond hair from the photo he printed less than an hour ago. He feels sick all over again.

“Looks like Mr Hughes is home early,” he hears distantly. The tone is vicious and triumphant. “Better get to work, Mark.”

Mark stands frozen where he is, tracking the movement of the young man who passes from one screen to the other, blissfully ignorant of the blue, unblinking eyes that follow him. He doesn't hear the heavy door close behind him, but when he tears his eyes off the screens he's alone.

His heart rate speeds up and for a second his vision goes white. He shakes his head, stumbles to the door and pounds his fists against the panelling.

“I'm not doing this!”

There is a faint, muffled chuckle from the other side.

“Yes, you are. You are allowed to have a five minute crisis if you want, but you'll give in eventually.”

“Let me out!”

“Oh, but Mark, don't you remember? You _are_ out.”

Mark presses his forehead against the door, eyes shut tight.

Less than a metre away, in a different city, Chris Hughes pours himself a glass of water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 _site:http://www.citycouncil.org "do not share"_  
_site:http://www.citycouncil.org "forbidden"_  
_site:http://www.citycouncil.org "classified"_

-

Mark doesn't understand, at first.

His eyes skip across the screen, scanning the document, and he knows the words, understands their meaning separately but he cannot process what they mean strung together as they are. It just. It makes no sense. What is even this document, he didn't hack anything, he used the goddamned search engine. So what if he found this nifty little trick that allows you to search directly into the directory of a website, it still searches the public contents of said website. Nobody would be stupid enough to put a forbidden document online unprotected and _name it_ CLASSIFIED.

This has got to be a joke.

Yet, here he is. The document doesn't look like the official notices they receive in the mail every week, but instead of comforting Mark, it makes him uneasy. Why should it look like something meant for him to see when it clearly is not.

He goes back to the top of the page, adjusts the brightness of his laptop screen and starts reading, unable to stop his eyes from bypassing entire paragraphs and catching on names and words that seem significant somehow.

 

 

> **ACTIVITY REPORT**  
>  **ZONE 5, DAY 9125**
> 
> ...sudden and severe health complications for Annabelle Linson (subject n°19530702.5176-L.A) – big house, fit family with two children, see possible match among candidates.
> 
> ...Mr and Mrs Barratt (subjects n°19690305.5282-B.P and n°19621217.34282-B.L) to start divorce proceedings... start exp. 87 accordingly...
> 
> ...end of exp. 23 on n°19960801.5422-S.N, remove pet...

There are dozens and dozens of brief instructions. Mark scrolls down pages and pages, and he has no idea what he is looking at but there's only so many guesses as to what _start exp. 87_ and _end exp. 23_ and _subject n°_ attached to a name can mean. But he is only truly frightened when he reaches the bottom of the document.

 

 

> ...breach sector 12, Jimmy Emrich (n°19820721.5247-E.M) _I know this is not supposed to contain any personal messages, but FUCK, JOHN, how many times do I have to tell you to fix the damn cameras around the pier? That fucking Jimmy kid was almost halfway across the river when we were finally able to spot him! And let me tell you that they weren't happy to be called in for an emergency storm at the weather centre. You better have the whole area under control and without a single blind spot before sunrise or I swear I'll have your head if the higher-ups don't get it first. Do you want one of them to cross and find out what on the other side? I mean, I'm starting to wonder. Because it would certainly be a lot of fun. Maybe you'd like to explain what we're doing to them in person once they come knocking on our door?  
>  In case you're even too stupid to understand the coordinates, I'll be magnanimous and give you the address. GET IT FIXED BEFORE SUNRISE._

 

Following the paragraph is, indeed, an address.

Mark has been, admittedly, freaking out a little for at least two pages now, but, as he reads the last line over and over again, something heavier settles in his stomach. Something that makes him queasy and makes his heart race, and he's suddenly glad he's sitting down because his eyes are starting to burn and he doesn't feel so good. He _knows_ the place, recognises the address. It's a real place, somewhere he's _been_.

And. He knows the kid.

Jimmy Emrich. He _knows_ Jimmy Emrich. Jimmy Emrich is part of the fencing team, he practises with Mark and sometimes they talk and Mark likes him because Jimmy isn't stupid and when he doesn't know something he gets curious and wants to know. Jimmy Emrich shook Mark's hand the day before yesterday.

Jimmy Emrich is a real person. And the pier is a real place. And if that's real, then the rest must also...  
Fuck. _Fuck_ , what is this thing.

Mark feels a panic attack coming. He's never had one, but it happened to a kid at school once, so the next day they had the nurse come in and explain what had happened and tell them in details the symptoms and what to do in case you or someone around you had a panic attack. He breathes deeply, in and out, tries to calm himself down. His hands are trembling.

He closes his eyes, counts backwards from thirty, careful to maintain regular, deep breaths. When he gets to zero, his eyes snap open and he scrolls all the way up to the top of the page, where it said. It said.

_Day 9125_

Mark tries to do the maths in his head but he has to give up and grab a calculator. He's not an idiot, he already knows he won't like the answer but he still chokes when the result pops up on the tiny screen.

 _25_  
9125 / 365 = 25  
Twenty five years. If this is real, if this document is legitimate, then whatever is going on has been going on for twenty five years. That's eight years longer than Mark has even been alive.

He takes his hands off the keyboard, lays them flat on his thighs. The address in the search bar is still the same, he's still on the city's website. But this is ridiculous. How can it possibly--

He tries to conjure everything he knows about the city, about his life, that would contradict the ideas forming in his head but instead his traitorous brain comes up with all the details that Mark noticed but never paid attention to; how Harvard is the end goal for every student yet he's never heard of anyone actually going; how nobody ever actually goes anywhere; how, when new people arrive, they never talk about where they were before and what they were doing; how odd it is to study the city in class when surely there must be other things that they're supposed to learn. And the river. Everyone knows you're not supposed to touch the water. There's something in it, you learn that when you're little so that you don't get hurt. Everyone's heard the stories about the people who wanted to go for a swim and ended up in the hospital --those who were lucky enough to be found.

But Jimmy almost crossed it. And he was okay. And it says there is something on the other side. It says Jimmy had to be stopped because he would have gotten there.

It doesn't add up. It doesn't make sense. There must be a way to check, to make sure. Mark presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. He can do this. If there's a way to make sure, he'll find it.

He starts typing again. Let's say that day 9125 is today, Mark thinks. Or yesterday, rather, he corrects after a glance at the clock. Before sunrise would mean before today begins. When was this written and put online? There must be a timestamp somewhere, either in the document's source code or something that will tell him when the file was uploaded.

At the same time, Mark tries to recall anything about a storm. The pier is 10 minutes away if you ride there, 35 if you walk. Would it be possible to have a storm there and clear sky here? It's been nice and sunny the whole week, the only change Mark can remember is a couple of dark clouds earlier in the evening. What time was it? Around 8pm? Right before nighttime?

 _1:38am_. There's his timestamp. This is when the document was last modified. Mark shoots another look at the clock. It was nearly three hours ago. Mark already knows what he's going to do. It's probably a very stupid idea and will probably not pan out, but the sun won't be up for two more hours and it's obvious from the message that this John guy isn't the most zealous person. Punctuality might not be his forte.

Ten minutes by bike. Mark has to make sure.

-

It's pitch black outside. The stars are out but there's no moon, the streetlights casting puddles of light surrounded by darkness. Mark doesn't mind, he's actually rather relieved. Despite his plan, if it can even be called that, he has no idea what is waiting for him on the pier, if anything. If he can ride there and find a good observation spot without being seen, that's one thing he might be able to freak out a little less about.

His heart rate is back to normal but his whole body is tense almost to the point of pain. He can taste the anticipation, the fear, and tries not to think about anything except which turns to take to reach his destination, but It's a losing battle. Every time he blinks, the words flash behind his eyelids. _subject n°, exp._ \--experiment, surely-- _cameras_. Part of his brain is already drawing conclusions that Mark knows he won't be able to ignore much longer, but for now he concentrates on moving his legs, pushing the pedals to keep riding.

Conclusions can wait. First, he needs to make sure.

When he comes within sight of the pier, it's nearly 5am and Mark's breathing is the only sound for miles around. There is no wind, the water is calm. Everything is still and silent, asleep. Maybe he's too late. Or maybe this is just as ridiculous as he thinks it is and he's making an idiot of himself. If it is a joke, though, it's a very, very sick one and Mark will ruin whoever thought of it. But his stomach is still churning and he cannot shake the feeling that he should stay where he is and wait. If nothing happens, then great, he'll go home, go to bed and forget all about it. If someone comes, well, Mark will worry about that later.

Dawn won't break for another two hours, enough for this whole thing to turn out to be either true or fake. He sets his bike in the bushes along the river bank, and finds a place for himself away from the light of the street lamps that gives him perfect view of the pier.

 

He doesn't have to wait long. Not a half hour later, a form comes out of the darkness into the yellow light cast by the street lamps. He seems to be alone, and Mark lets out a relieved sigh he hadn't even realised he was holding.

Besides being by himself, the man also cuts the most unthreatening figure. He's oldish, maybe in his late forties, pudgy, bespectacled and not entirely bald yet but well on his way. In fact, he looks so utterly harmless that Mark is almost ready to dismiss him as a weird old guy with odd hours for his walks until he notices the tool belt. The words still on his laptop screen back at home come crashing back and all his senses suddenly and completely zero in on the man.

Get it fixed, they said. This guy is clearly here to fix something.

Mark was expecting it, that's why he stayed and waited, why he took his bike and came here in the first place, but he still feels a little shaky as he tracks the movements of the man going about his business.

He starts with the lamp posts, which makes sense. Lamp posts are logical spots to put cameras, and it wouldn't be that unsurprising that nobody ever noticed there were cameras there, because who pays attention to lamp posts? They're not hidden, people simply never look. And, okay, Mark doesn't see them, but he's quite a distance away, it doesn't mean they're very small and/or made to be concealed.

But then the man proceeds to check every trash can, bench, tree, and even the sprinklers of the above-ground watering system, and yeah, okay, maybe they are supposed to be hidden.

Mark watches, transfixed, as the man rummages around. Within an area that Mark has estimated to be around 50m², he stops no less than twenty five times to take out his tools and tweak something that Mark is too far away to see, but if what he read is to be believed (and doubting it now is starting to sound more and more delusional), these somethings are cameras.

Which means that there are at least twenty five cameras filming the pier, and it has never been mentioned anywhere by anyone. And when these cameras break they send people to fix them at nights via instructions on online documents that are supposed to be protected and remain secret from the population. From people like Mark. Who is watching it happen.

He shouldn't be here.

His body is thrumming with nervous energy, mind racing and teeming with thoughts that he knows he cannot ignore anymore, but something is holding him back. There could still be a rational explanation. Maybe this is part of the city's security system. Crime is but a vague notion and the policemen Mark knows are more often seen regulating traffic around schools in the morning and after class than chasing criminals, but maybe. Maybe.

Before he's found a satisfying explanation, though, he sees the man straighten up and put his tools back in his tool belt. He's leaving and Mark is still not sure, still isn't 100% certain. He needs to find a way. He is under no illusion that this is anything more than a stroke of luck and that the occasion will present itself again (good luck or bad luck, he hasn't decided yet.) He needs to find a way _now_ , and all he has is this guy, who is either a good guy or a bad guy. There isn't much choice.

So Mark makes a split second decision. He runs towards the retreating figure and, when he's about ten metres away, plants himself in the middle of the road and calls out.

“John!”

The man whips around so fast that Mark almost jumps. When he catches sight of Mark, his eyes go wide, his face white as a sheet. He looks at Mark as if Mark is the most terrifying creature he's ever seen. It's not what Mark was hoping for if he's honest with himself, and he goes cold, frozen by the expression on the man's face. Fuck. This isn't happening, it's not. He's a smart kid with too much imagination, this is not real.

“I won't tell an-” he starts, feebly, but his voice seems to bring the other man back from his shock and jolt him into action. He reaches into one of his pockets and grabs something, a small device, Mark can't see it clearly. He presses a button, puts the thing to his mouth and starts talking. Mark's heart rate spikes when the words filter through the ringing in his ears to his brain. The guy's calling back up.

Fuck, _fuck_.

Mark runs back to his bike and flees.

Okay, then.

Real.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mark gives himself two minutes. He keeps his forehead to the door, eyes shut, and tunes everything out. No sound, no thoughts, no feelings. When his mind is free of any distracting parasites, he starts counting backwards from 120. Slowly, perhaps not as exact as it should be, but there's no one to call him out on cheating and even if there was, nothing would give him more joy right now than to tell them to go fuck themselves. So he counts.

Down to 60, he allows his thoughts to trickle back in. No recollections, no mulling over how and why he's been brought here. He needs his own thoughts now. He doesn't go looking for happy memories of his childhood the way he's heard some people do when they're feeling stressed and need to calm down. Those memories are not his own, never were, he's accepted that.

He goes back to that night on the pier. The night everything changed, the night he _made_ everything change. That was him, it was all him. They never even saw it coming when they clearly should have. Mark owns that night, it's his and his alone. So he goes back, relives it, lets himself soak up the memory until he reaches zero.

He stops counting, lets out a deep breath and focuses on what he should remember from that night: he already beat them once, he can do it again.

His eyes flutter open, and he feels calm.

If they want him to play, he'll play. He's not that interested in games, but he knows that some games don't require both parties to enjoy themselves, so Mark just has to make sure to be the one to win. Again. (for good, his mind supplies quietly. He acknowledges the thought, but puts it aside for now. All in due time.)

He turns around, lets his eyes wander back to the Wall. Chris isn't in the kitchen anymore. He's left his glass in the sink and Mark finds him in the bedroom, in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. He averts his eyes and walks slowly to the chair at the control table. Sitting down on it feels a lot less ominous that he thought it would. To be honest, as he lays his palms flat on the armrest, Mark doesn't feel anything at all and it's this that makes him uncomfortable.

Chris comes into the living-room wearing sweatpants and a tee-shirt, turns on the TV and sprawls on the couch. Mark registers vaguely that he's been calling him by his first name and that maybe it isn't such a good idea. He refuses to refer to him by his number, but he could call him Hughes instead of Chris. Then he scoffs at himself and how ridiculous he is. What difference would it make? Create distance? He's only here tonight, he'll never see the guy again. He could call him sweetheart for all he cares.

Mark settles more comfortably in the chair. He should be in tune with Chris, right? Chris looks about as ready to move as Mark is to break into songs. He eyes the notepad, chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully. He'll have to write something down, but so far nothing noteworthy has happened, and Mark is no expert but it seems unlikely that Chris is suddenly going to become enraged and go slaughter his neighbours.

Out of nowhere, a thought barrels through all Mark's carefully built walls to wrap around him, warm and constricting all at once.

_Your parents are his neighbours._

It's not true, though. Mark's parents live two blocks away, that's too far to be called neighbours. He knew Mrs Mitchell because he used to walk to school and he happened to pass by the house on his way, that's all. So what if Mark's dad helped around when Mr Mitchell died and his mum invited Mrs Mitchell over for tea a couple of times a month. That's the city's policy, it doesn't have anything to do with it.

Chris is not Mark's parents' neighbour. Mark's parents don't have neighbours, Mark's parents live in Mark's head and nowhere else. That's what he's decided, that's what he can deal with.

Half an hour later, Chris gets up from the couch to pour himself another glass of water. He drinks half of it, puts it on the table. He rubs his eyes with his left hand and pads to the toilets. There's a camera there, too. Mark averts his eyes again but cannot avoid the sound, and he thinks of himself the days following the pier incident and has to fight the urge to laugh.

He had this huge, terrible knowledge that was about to change his life, and so, so many reasons to be scared, but he'd found himself terrified of toilets and bathrooms.

Because he would pull down his trousers and underwear and take a shit and people would watch and listen. He'd unzip his fly and take a piss and people would look at his dick and watch him do it. He'd undress and take a shower and some random stranger would be watching him rub his naked body clean with soap, watching him jerk off, watching him as he stared at his naked reflection and found it lacking. And he knew they were watching. And he couldn't do anything about it.

They're terrible memories of times Mark would rather forget, when his life was so absurd that the most trivial things set him off. But he hears Chris wash his hands and it makes him want to laugh because this is just so unbelievably fucked up, this whole thing, that right now he doesn't know what else to do. He sure as hell isn't going to cry, and he needs his laptop to enter the game properly. So he snorts, smirks at Chris as Chris sinks back onto the couch.

The TV is playing some sort of show about an ancient city where people wear robes and sandals and talk with a weird accent. Mark blinks at it, starts listening distractedly. Before he knows it, he's entranced, Chris completely forgotten, his whole attention on the show. It's only after the third episode is over that he notices that Chris has fallen asleep.

Seeing him makes Mark's insides twitch. He looks peaceful, defenceless. His breathing is regular and his eyelids are perfectly still; he's not dreaming. He's sleeping. It's 23:50 and Chris Hughes, like most people in the city, is sleeping.

It's been more than two years since Mark's seen someone asleep. His flat is all he has, and his flat only has him in it. Him and his laptop and his cans of tuna. He has neighbours who despise him, colleagues who ignore him and nobody to invite him over for tea twice a month.

Mark stares at the form of the young man on the screen. _settled into his new house without any problems_ , the report said. _introduced himself to his neighbours, and has already made a couple of acquaintances that could very quickly become close friends._ It mentioned a sexual orientation but no boyfriend. Mark wonders when Chris will find one, what kind of person it'll be.

Then he grabs the notepad and a pen and scribbles down his report of Chris' activity for the night. It's a paragraph of exactly two lines and a half. Afterwards, he crosses his arms on the control table, careful to avoid any button. If his subject is asleep, he figures he can sleep, too. There's nothing worth staying awake for.

-

Mark is woken up at 5:00am sharp, when the feed on one of the screens on the Wall is cut to be replaced by the usual cheery music that precedes that fat lady and her announcements. He starts in the chair, glances around with a yawn, bleary-eyed and half asleep still. A couple of seconds later, the music stops and the familiar voice fills the room.

_Good morning, Mr Zuckerberg! It is 5:00am, your task for today is now complete! We thank you for your cooperation and availability on such short notice. Please wait for your replacement to arrive before leaving the premises. A driver will take you back to your unit. We wish a nice day!_

Well, damn. That has to be the nicest message to ever have been addressed to him. Possibly in his entire life. He blinks at the screen, bemused, wondering if he really did wake up or if this is some sort of dream in which his life is only slightly crap. But the fat lady is already gone, the screen back to showing the flower beds running along the terrace behind Chris Hughes' house.

At some point during the course of the night, Chris has migrated from the couch to his bed. Mark sees him sleeping there just as peacefully as he was in the living-room. He doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt at having slept through the event. What would he have written anyway? _Grown man walks to bedroom all by himself, doesn't need hand holding_ ?

He stretches, cracks his neck to try and get rid of the kink he got sleeping on the table. The door opens just as he groans when the pain disappears and he hears a surprised laugh.

“Am I supposed to be waking you up? I don't think I'm supposed to be waking you up.”

Mark swivels the chair to face the door and is greeted by a flash of red hair that makes him frown. He blinks.

“I'm Dustin?” red hair says, extending a hand towards Mark. “I'm supposed to take over for the rest of the day.”

Mark blinks at the hand.

“You say suppose a lot.”

Dustin blinks back at Mark and they stare at each other in silence, Mark trying to wake himself up properly, Dustin looking slightly confused.

When he's blinked a few more times and is finally sufficiently aware of his surroundings, Mark notices two things. First, Dustin is still holding out his hand, waiting for Mark to shake it. Second, he's looking at Mark like he has absolutely no idea who Mark is, and that. Well, that's the last thing Mark has learnt to expect. Everybody always knows who he is, and everybody always resents him because of it.

Yet, here is this guy with red hair named Dustin, whose friendly smile is turning worried and possibly a little scared by Mark's utter lack of reaction. Before he has time to drop his hand and back away, Mark's years of conditioning kick in and he stands up, shakes Dustin's hand and smiles.

“Mark,” he says, trying to inject all the friendly politeness left in him in his voice.

Dustin's answering grin is blinding, and he looks so genuine that Mark can't help grinning back without even needing to force himself.

“You're new, aren't you?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Dustin makes a face and laugh sheepishly.

“It's written all over me, isn't it?”

“Yeah, a little,” Mark says, but there's still a small smile playing on his lips and Dustin doesn't seem offended.

A car honks outside, and Dustin jumps, startled. Mark frowns.

“That's probably my ride.”

Dustin nods and steps aside to let Mark pass. Once he's in the doorway, though, Mark stops and chews on his lower lip for a second. Dustin is peering curiously at the control table. He doesn't look nervous nor worried, but he doesn't look like all those arrogant assholes who believe they're entitled to rule other people's lives for their own sick purposes. And he smiled at Mark, and shook his hand.

“You, um, you won't have any problems with him,” Mark mutters, glancing at Dustin before looking at his feet. “With Chris, I mean. He's normal, so, you know. You'll be fine.”

Dustin looks up at Mark with a grateful smile that looks as friendly and genuine as the one he gave Mark earlier.

“Thanks. I'll see you around, I guess?”

Mark nods, steps out and closes the door behind him.

 

Twenty minutes later, he's back home. He shrugs off his hoodie, slips out of his flip-flops and goes back to sleep without looking at his laptop. For the first time in months he dreams, and in his dream he doesn't feel lonely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mark doesn't remember falling asleep. He doesn't remember riding back to the house so fast that his legs were burning when he tossed his bike against the fence, slipped back inside and ran up the stairs to his room. When his eyes flutter open the next morning, Mark fixes his attention on the blinking numbers on the clock that read 11:27 and for a full minute, he doesn't remember anything. His mind is silent, utterly and blissfully blank. Then the numbers flicker to 11:28 and it all comes back.

His gaze travels to his laptop, still open on his desk. It's on but in sleep mode, humming away quietly as if nothing had happened, as if there was no special reason Mark hadn't turned it off last night. If he wakes it up, he'll find the same document up on the screen, no need to even maximise the window. Mark could get up and read it again, now that he's gone too far to be able to ignore it. But he doesn't want to.

He got the point clearly enough the first time.

He does get up, though, shakes the covers off and shuffles over to the desk. He chews on his lower lip for a second before sliding his fingers on the touchpad. The screen brightens slowly until the page appears in all its shiny glory, black words harsh against the white background. He is almost positive that if he hits refresh, the document will be gone, page empty but for an error message telling him the address cannot be found. So he saves it, puts it away in a remote folder hoping he'll never have to lay eyes on it again, knowing he will.

He hits refresh.

**404: FILE NOT FOUND**

Mark lets out a sound between a scoff and a sigh. If they hadn't noticed that someone else had had access to the document online, surely openly confronting one of them would have clued them in. It doesn't prevent the brief feeling of numbness that takes over his whole body. They'll be watching him for a reason, now.

On the other hand, he also feels a hint of relief. They cleaned up their mistake in a relatively decent amount of time. They may not be total incompetents. It's probably not a logical thought to have, but Mark cannot help being personally offended by the idea that these people who left evidence lying around for anybody to find could be completely stupid. Because if they are and he only found out about them now, then he's just as stupid, which is more than mildly insulting.

He stands there, fingers tapping against the touchpad, selecting and deselecting the empty page. Despite his attention having been mostly on that last paragraph and the evidence of outside cameras on the pier, Mark feels no urge to turn his room upside down looking for surveillance devices. He's fairly sure it would prove fruitless, and he remembers enough of those skipped, half-read other paragraphs to know that it wouldn't mean a thing.

There are cameras in his room recording him right now, as well as in every other room in the house, and most likely outside around the house, too. He doesn't need to see them to know they're there, and that he cannot do anything about it.

He made the first move, and what a spectacular first move it was. They'll be more careful now, pay more attention. If they stop leaving traces, Mark won't have any opportunity to fight --if he even wants to. No. It's their turn now. Just thinking it makes Mark shiver. The future he had always imagined pleasant and uneventful, slightly boring, has turned into one big question mark, and he's scared. A little.

Part of him still cannot believe he just stumbled upon a conspiracy without even looking for it, but there are enough elements to remind him that it did happen, which leaves him in a sort of limbo where he feels slightly scared, yes, but mostly baffled.

Then, as he closes his laptop and turns around to study his room absently, another feeling runs through him, makes his breath shallow, his body shake and his senses sharpen. It's not fear, no, far from it Mark realises as his lips quirk up into a smirk almost against his will. It's excitement.

Because, come on. Here he is, Mark Zuckerberg, the seventeen year old high school student with no girlfriend who uncovered a giant, decades-long conspiracy all on his own.

How cool is that?

-

It doesn't last. Mark has been gearing himself up for retaliation, some kind of counter-attack, but days pass and nothing happens. His Sunday is as lazy as any previous Sunday, he goes to school on Monday and attends the same classes he always attends on Mondays and nothing out of the ordinary happens. He is not sent to the principal's office, isn't picked out for any particular activity, isn't even looked at more than usual. Tuesday is the same, as is Wednesday, Thursday, and the rest of the week.

Every day when he comes home, he says hi to his mother, runs up to his room, boots up his laptop and tries to find something, anything, but in vain. They really did clean up their mess. Sometimes, he allows himself to imagine them the night they messed up, how shocked they must have been, how fast he must have sent them running, yelling for someone to fix that breach. He imagines panic, frantic calls for explanation and dawning horror. It's a nice thought.

A frustrating one, too. He may have caused quite a stir that night, but they've been ignoring him completely since. Maybe he's not as much of a threat as he thinks he is. It's not like he's done anything to cause them harm. He hasn't talked to anybody about what he saw, and he knows why, and hates that they know too.

Who would believe him? He doesn't have any proof. It would be his word against... the city's? One lone teenage boy crying wolf against twenty-five years of carefully monitored and conditioned habits? Yeah, that would work out great. Sure, he still has the document that started it all saved on his laptop, but who's to say he didn't write it himself?

He has a knowledge that is as undeniable as it is impossible to prove. In short, he has nothing.

It takes him a couple more days to catch up on what they're doing. It shouldn't have taken this long, considering, and Mark feels like an idiot. Of course they're not retaliating. Of course they'd ignore him and leave him to rot in his own brain. Make something big seem insignificant and people will eventually think it _is_. Not that Mark has started to doubt himself, he hasn't, but the thought crossed his mind that maybe it wasn't that big of a deal.

It's not like they're killing or even hurting anybody, after all. From what he's read, they're merely observing. So, yes, if you're concerned about privacy it might not sit well with you, but as far as Mark knows they don't use any of the information they collect against anybody.

All those thoughts did cross his mind. And then it also crossed his mind that “as far as he knew” didn't mean shit because he'd only scratched the surface. One document isn't enough to call himself an expert.

So, nine days after his frantic ride to the pier and back, Mark comes home, says hi to his mother, runs back to his room and locks the door behind himself. He doesn't turn on his laptop, doesn't even open it. Instead, he grabs the small whiteboard stuffed in his closet, remain of a very brief artistic period when he was eight, and puts it up it in front of the window.

On it, in thick black letters, he writes:

**DON'T FORGET WHAT YOU KNOW.**

And underneath,

**YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.**

He stares at he words as he replaces the cap on the pen. Yes, that should do it. And this way, they can see it just as much as he can.

-

The whiteboard does help. Mark stays focused. One afternoon, he finally gives up on trying to ignore the document he hasn't touched since he saved it and opens it. It's raining outside. Mark's parents are still at work. The bedroom door is open and it's to the sound of raindrops hitting the roof that Mark reads the file in its entirety for the first time.

He knew what to expect, but he'd misjudged the sheer magnitude of the experiment they're running. Because that's what it is. The city, _his_ city, has been created from scratch for the sole purpose of hosting the biggest social experiment ever conducted. It's not said, but it's the only possible explanation.

Mark obviously doesn't know every inhabitant of the city, but the file contains instructions and brief reports on exactly 963 people. Mark knows thirty-seven of them by name, five personally. Said five live within two kilometres of each other, the closest, Tim Dale, being three kilometres away from Mark. Mark isn't on the file, neither are his parents or any of their immediate neighbours. Which means that Zone 5, as the first page says, stops somewhere between his house and Tim Dale's.

Mark walks downstairs and grabs the phonebook. It's a customary item in every house and contains the address and phone number of every single person in the city for everybody to know and use. Mark has never found it odd before, but he's starting to realise that it is not innocent. Make friends, talk to your neighbours, meet people, be in touch. He cannot suppress the shiver than runs down his spine as he walks back up to his room, phonebook in hand.

He finds an old map of the city his father had gotten him when Mark was a kid and participated in the treasure hunt the primary school organises every year, and spreads it on his bed. He grabs a red pen and draws a dot on Tim Dale's house and the four others he knows. Then, he starts going through the names mentioned in the report, looks them up in the phone book, finds them on the map and draws a red dot on their locations.

A couple of hours later, his mom comes home, then his dad. Mark walks back downstairs to greet them, spends some time with them in the living-room. When they move towards the kitchen to start preparing dinner, he goes back to his room and keeps working, browsing slowly through the file, leafing through the phonebook until he finds every name mentioned. He's not done when they call him to eat, and he doesn't linger at the table once he's finished his meal. His mother stares at him with an expression as disapproving as it is fond, while his father chuckles quietly and waves distractedly at him to “go do your thing, son.”

Back in his room, staring at the map where a distinct red shape has started to form, Mark has to stop the thoughts running through his head for a second.

He'll have to tell his parents eventually. If he ends up finding something actually substantial, he won't be as easy to dismiss as he is now, and-- Mark takes a deep breath. And what? He'll bargain? His silence for him and his parents getting out? The idea is laughable even to him. Can you even get out of this? What if by telling his parents, all he does is compromise them? He has no idea what will happen to him if he keeps digging and finds solid evidence. Shouldn't he try to keep them out of it? They're happy as they are, would it really be doing them a favour to drag them into this? Ignorance is bliss, as they say, right?

Also, plausible deniability, if it comes to that.

Mark ducks his head, closes his eyes, touches the fingertips of both his hands to his thumbs twice, and goes back to work.

-

It takes him one more hour to finish. He doesn't double-check, because it would take just as long and he can see on the map that he didn't make any mistake. One dot for each name. 963 dots splayed over an area of roughly 7km² according to the scale.

Zone 5.

Not a single address left unmarked. Which means not a single person not mentioned in the report. Which means that there isn't one single person in that whole area that isn't being monitored. Not one.

Mark sits down on the floor, his vision turning blurry.

His eyes stray to the whiteboard, unfocused, and through the fog in his mind, he reads.

**YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.**

And it's too late for the reality of that statement to only sink in now, but that's what happens.

Mark stares at the words as they seep into his brain, wrap around his mind, corrupting his thoughts and clouding his senses.

_You are being watched._

Thirteen days after his great discovery, it's with those words echoing around his head that reality finally crashes down on Mark.

He panics.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mark has never been self-conscious, not in the way you'd expect a teenage boy to be. He gets embarrassed, he gets frustrated, and when faced with rejection he feels humiliated to a degree that is sometimes unwarranted. He feels all these emotions as normally as everyone else does. The only difference is that Mark never doubts himself. He is who he is and while he does feel the need to be liked and included in larger groups, he isn't desperate for it and refuses to compromise himself to gain acceptance.

He's been called pretentious, he's been called arrogant, and maybe he is. When he'd breached the subject with his mother, though, she'd only offered him a small smile and patted his head in that way she knew he hated.

“You have a strong sense of yourself, Mark, which can be perceived as arrogance. You are smart and, while you don't try to hide it, you also know not to throw it in people's faces, which can be perceived as you being pretentious. All big mouth a very little to actually show for it.”

He stared at her, wondering if she was trying to comfort him. It was hard to tell sometimes with his mother. She'd caught his eyes and laughed.

“Oh, sweetheart, you're just more confident, that's all. You know what you are and what you need –and consequently what you don't. People your age sometimes have difficulties figuring that out.”

“Don't call me sweetheart.”

“Why not? Do you find it insulting? Do you think it belittles your character?”

Mark frowned, confused. She had that twinkle in her eyes like this was all very amusing to her.

“No, it's just a stupid word. What you choose to call me is your problem, not mine.”

“My point exactly.”

So that's the thing. Mark is not self-conscious. Mark doesn't care what people think of him as long as he is not actively trying to impress them. If there is one thing that he is absolutely, one hundred percent sure of, it's that he is not trying to impress whoever is watching him. But as confident as you may be, when your only thought as you open your eyes in the morning and close them at night is _You are being watched_ , it eats at you.

It's only small things, at first. Mark walks past someone in the street, notices something random about them and wonders what it says about this person. Does their choice of jacket for the day mean anything? Will it be mentioned in their next report? Will the fact that he skipped dinner last night be mentioned in _his_?

He goes to school, hangs out with this friends. They're much more sociable and extrovert than he is, always have been, but now he watches them as they talk and wonders how he fits in. Were they brought together naturally or was it something deliberate? Was it coincidental or did someone decide they'd be a good match and put them in each other's ways? Are they all unknowingly playing right into someone else's hands? Do they have any choice in this?

It's an itch, an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck that he can't scratch and can't shake off. It's annoying and unnerving, but he deals with it as well as he can. He's fine, he can handle it.

So, naturally, that's when they finally retaliate.

-

Mark wakes up and like so many other mornings now, _You are being watched_ is the first thing on his mind. He dismisses it out of habit. He gets dressed, munches on a sweet bun, brushes his teeth and leaves for school.

First period starts with the announcement that their teacher is sick and will be replaced. The substitute teacher is a tiny brunette with long hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, an outfit that looks professional yet casual, big brown eyes and a friendly smile. Maybe mid-twenties, Mark guesses as she stands in front of the class and introduces herself, earnest and enthusiastic. _subject n°_ flashes behind Mark's eyelids before she even gets around to spelling her name on the board. He closes his eyes, breathes in.

Once she's finished taking attendance, Miss Widom (as it says on the board) declares that they're going to watch a movie and work on it for the rest of the day, which has the whole class proclaiming its eternal love for her. Their reaction makes Mark irrationally angry for a second. They're all so _easy_ , don't they realise?

He only pays vague attention to the summary she is giving them until he hears _pervasive surveillance_ and _mind control_. At the words, his head snaps up so fast his neck cracks. He narrows his eyes at her, feeling suddenly cold and sweaty at the same time, but she only adds a couple of unremarkable sentences, draws the blinds and turns the TV on. She doesn't look his way at all.

Many things have happened to Mark since that morning, stuck in that uncomfortable chair, staring so intently at the tiny screen that his eyes went dry and itchy, but to this day he still remembers it as the most terrifying 113 minutes of his life.

It's different. Of course it's different. The movie is worse, so much worse than what is going on in the city, but the similitudes are so obvious and the message so clear that Mark barely keeps himself from bolting out the door and running away. His hands are clammy, tucked in the pocket of his hoodie, gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles hurt. By the end of it, he feels sick.

“I love you,” mouths the character on the screen as he is, for all intents and purposes, killed. Mark tastes bile as he swallows. He shifts his gaze to Miss Widom to find her staring right back at him, intent, expression hard in the dim light. Mark's stomach lurches.

He'd been expecting some kind of warning, but that's not what this is. This is a threat, clear and simple.

His classmates are already whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Mark catches snippets of enthusiastic half-conversations. _“Wow, that was amazing! Fucked up, but brilliant!” “Right? Can you imagine living in a world like that? I'd go insane.”_

He takes a shaky breath, passes a hand over his eyes. He grabs a pen, hunches over his desk and starts doodling in the margins of his textbook, shutting everything else out. The chatter surrounding him melts into a gentle murmur as he lets his fingers drag the pen across the pages in nonsensical lines. It feels as if his hand detaches itself from the rest of him to do its own thing. He lets it. It's numbing, which is not a feeling that Mark usually enjoys, but he needs to calm down.

It's only when the background noise fade that Mark's hand slows. He looks out through the window, squinting against the glare of the sun. The courtyard is full of students. Must be lunch break. Miss Widom clears her throat loudly. It echoes strangely in the empty room.

Of course.

Mark keeps his head low, intent on his doodles. He still feels a little faint, but he's curious, so he stays put and waits.

“Mr Zuckerberg?” Miss Widom says sweetly, perching herself on the desk before his. “You've been very quiet.”

Mark takes the time to finish his drawing and lays down his pen very carefully. Only when it is perfectly parallel to the edge of the desk does he look up at Miss Widom.

“You real name isn't Widom, is it.”

She blinks at him, but ignores the question. “What did you think about Winston?” she asks instead. “Do you think he could have had a different ending?”

“How should I know,” he replies flatly.

“Well, you watched the movie. Surely you have an opinion.”

Mark gives a short shrug that says both “I don’t know” and “Fuck you” at the same time. She's awful, has no subtlety at all. Mark is almost disappointed.

“You looked thoroughly enthralled,” she insists, and Mark might have thought she was vaguely pretty before but she looks greedy and full of herself now, staring down at him like she has complete control over him. It's sad.

“Are we going to keep pretending this is about the movie?”

“Why? What is this about, Mark?”

“I'm sure you enjoy being in a position of power and responsibilities despite your young age, but surely making veiled threats at a seventeen year old can't be that entertaining. Especially given the fact that you're not as impressive as you seem to believe you are.”

She raises a surprised eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Why don't you try being straightforward? I found you out, you weren't expecting it, and now you're attempting to scare me into keeping quiet and not put whatever it is that you're doing in jeopardy.”

She laughs. “Oh, I see. You think you have it all figured out.”

“I wasn't expecting their fearful agent to be someone in a skirt, but yes, so far nothing about this has been even remotely surprising.” It's a lie. Mark was expecting a warning, he wasn't expecting a punch in the gut and wanting to throw up.

“Maybe they send someone in a skirt, as you say, because they don't perceive you as a serious threat.”

That makes him huff an unamused laugh. “You realise you just called yourself irrelevant.”

She frowns at him, lips pressed together, displeased.

“If that's all you can do, I'll be leaving.”

She sneers. “It's only lunch, Mark. Skipping class will look bad on your record.”

“Which one?”

That shuts her up. He gathers his things, stuffs them in his backpack and walks out the door.

“We have our eyes on you, Mr Zuckerberg,” she calls after him.

“No shit.”

-

The following days are a nightmare.

He forgets about Miss whatever her name was. She was a joke, had no idea what she was doing. The movie is harder to erase form his memory. He sees the screens and hears _you are being watched, you are being watched_. There's no Thought Police but Mark starts keeping his words to himself. He stops talking, walks with his head down. He is aware that he's being irrational but he cannot control it.

He covers the TV in his bedroom with a dark sheet, avoids the living-room when his parents are watching something. People he walks by who don't look familiar become potential enemies. Because if Miss Widom worked for them and was at his school, _in his classroom_ , then anybody could be one of them.

He stops going out, pretends he's sick so he can avoid school. Home feels safer until he remembers that home is where he is at his most vulnerable. Home is where he sleeps, where he talks freely about his concerns, where he smiles, lets himself show how much he cares.

He locks himself in his room, hunches over his laptop. For hours and hours he searches, types, tries. All in vain. But they're here, he knows. _Don't forget what you know._

He tells himself he should put the whiteboard back in the cupboard, it's only making it worse. He's falling asleep on his keyboard, gives himself five minutes before he puts the damn thing away and drags himself to bed.

-

He wakes up face pressed against the soft fabric of his pillow. The whiteboard still stands by the window, he must have forgotten. Except.

_**YOU ARE BEING WATCHED** _

That's not his handwriting. It doesn't even look like his handwriting, fuck, _fuck_ , they were here while Mark was asleep and it doesn't matter that his sleeping schedule is all wrong because they knew, because they were here, _are_ here, always, always, always--

-

“Mark.”

Mark freezes when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He flinches away instinctively, turns around to meet his mother's concerned expression. He's in the middle of the hall. He doesn't remember how he got there.

“Mark,” his mother repeats gently. He stares at her, eyes wide, stuffs his hands in his pockets to try and hide how hard they're shaking. “Mark, you're okay.”

She has her serious face on, as if this isn't just a punctual problem, which is strange because Mark is a little edgy but he told her he was sick, he's allowed to be a little weird today. She examines him carefully, but doesn't try to touch him again.

“I know you don't want to tell us what's worrying you, but this can't go on.”

What is she talking about, it can't go on? He just woke up. Mark feels antsy. His eyes jump from one place to the other, never resting on one point more than a split second. It's only when they go back to his mother that he notices. He blinks, frowns.

“You changed your hair.”

“Yes, I did.”

“When?”

“The day before yesterday, Mark.”

_I don't remember._

His mother is still staring at him, staying within reach but far enough to not crowd him. She's treating him with way too much caution. _This can't go on._ How long has he been like this?

“At least take a shower? You haven't been out of these clothes in four days,” she says. Mark goes cold.

He nods, numb. “Yeah, okay.”

In the bathroom, he stands in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. He sees a red dot and someone else looking back at him.

_You are being watched._

He stays under the burning water far too long, the heat and the arms he wraps around himself doing nothing to stop him from shaking. He keeps his underwear on.

He's a little better after that. His skin is pink and tight around his bones, but his head feels clearer. He puts clean clothes on, but keeps a towel wrapped around his waist to change his soaked and dirty underwear. He feels awkward, but it's okay. Awkward is better than being so out of it he's forgotten four entire days of his life.

He pads to the kitchen, hair still damp. His mother is sitting at the counter, reading a magazine. He sits down in front of her, crossing his hands in his lap. She glances at him, quickly taking in his appearance, and goes back to reading. Mark ducks his head, chews on his lip.

“I'm sorry.”

She pushes the magazine to the side and looks at him, grave.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to tell me what caused all this?”

Mark thinks about the movie, about the fate of the main character and clenches his hands into fists. _Never._ “No.”

She takes it in stride. “Are you going to tell your father?”

 _No. No, no, no, no._ He shrugs, keeps silent.

“Okay.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. We were worried, but if you're feeling better now it's fine. I don't need to remind you that you can talk to us, though, right?”

He nods, hating having to lie to her. “I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do anything wrong, Mark.”

_No._

_But I'm about to._

 

He waits until 4am, because it's appropriate. And funny, if you don't mind it stinging a little.

Mark takes a flashlight and a baseball bat, slips out of the house, gets on his bike and rides. The pier looks exactly the same, but this time Mark knows what to look for, and where. It takes him about ten minutes to find the first camera. It's the one embedded in the trash can closest to the water. Mark spots it when the light of his flashlight reflects against the tiny lens. He smiles at it, grim and victorious, before smashing it with the bat. The crack of it as it shatters into tiny pieces of glass and plastic is the most satisfying sound Mark has heard in a while.

He keeps going. One in each bench, two in each lamp post, one in each sprinkler. The trees are tricky. It takes him five minutes to find the first one. It's embedded in the trunk, tiny and concealed in a knot in the wood. Mark hits it with his flashlight, careful not to damage the wood. It's the most liberating thing he's ever done.

It's 5:30am when he stops. The horizon is dark, dawn still half an hour away. He sits on the grass, gazes at the water. He's successfully found and destroyed twenty cameras. Not as much as he saw John fix, but good enough. They'll get his point. He stretches, lies on his back and looks up at the stars. No clouds, no oncoming storm. They didn't even try to stop him. What does it mean? When the tickle of bugs crawling up his legs starts to be too uncomfortable, he gets up, gets his bike and goes home.

He doesn't forget the ride back, this time; the cool wind on his face, hands and legs, the gentle, rolling sound of his tire against the asphalt, flashes of light as he rides past the illuminated windows of early risers. When he slips under the covers of his bed, minutes before dawn breaks, Mark feels at peace.

 

He sleeps six hours. He showers in his underwear again, but this time he doesn't shake. He pads downstairs, footsteps silent on the thick carpet.

His parents are in the kitchen, making lunch. They move around each other with an ease that Mark is used to yet never ceases to amaze him. He pulls a chair and they turn at the sound, breaking into identical grins when they see him. His mother rushes to his side, hugs him, ruffles his hair affectionately and kisses his forehead, beaming. “I'm so proud of you!” she says, and Mark has no idea what's going on, but he doesn't feel so good all of a sudden.

When his father comes to clap him on the back, Mark looks at him with questioning eyes until his father makes a face. “Yeah, sorry, we opened it. We wanted to wait but you were sleeping for the first time in days, so.” It's only when he gestures to a thick brown envelope lying open on the counter that Mark understands. On it, in the top right corner is the Harvard seal.

They're taking him away.

“No wonder you were so stressed,” his mother laughs, relieved. “You didn't even tell us you applied!”

 _Because I didn't._ But he's not surprised, not really. He grabs the envelope on auto-pilot, slips the contents out.

“We only read the first few lines of the acceptance letter, though,” his father says, looking a little guilty.

Mark nods. He reads it. It looks authentic enough, but then again he doesn't have anything to compare it to. There's a file on the school, pages and pages of information about the history of the building, the classes, the opportunities, etc. Mark doesn't retain any of it. There's a small piece of paper taped to the last page, though, and Mark knows immediately that it is the only thing actually meant for him to read.

_Brave of you to keep your mouth shut. Pack a bag and say goodbye to your parents, this is the last time you'll see them. Congratulations, Mr Zuckerberg, you're getting out._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mark is roused from sleep by a loud rumbling noise and the impression that his stomach is eating itself. It's not a pleasant sensation. It's also not how he's used to waking up. He blinks, eyelids heavy, and lifts his head just enough to see the screen in front of his bed. 11:18am reads the top right corner. Huh. He did work seventeen hours in a row with barely a break for lunch or dinner, though, maybe it's not that surprising that he should have the morning off. Not that sensible decisions are the norm around here, but Mark isn't going to complain. He rolls over, pushes his head into the pillows and goes back to sleep.

He's woken up again, this time by the habitual music preceding the fat little lady's appearance. He groans.

_”Good morning, Mr Zuckerberg. Today, you will take over the second shift of watch duty. Your presence is required at 13:00, a car will pick you up at 12:40. It is 11:30. We wish you a nice day.”_

Twelve fucking minutes, so much for going back to sleep. And watch duty?

Mark closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. The thing is, he is a lot less angry than he used to be. They didn't drag him away from the first seventeen years of his life kicking and screaming, didn't have to, but the first couple of months here? Mark? Spent his days trying to burn the place to the ground, not always metaphorically. It had nothing to do with anger management issues or whatever they somehow tried to make him believe. No, he just loathed the lot of them with his whole being. And who could blame him, right?

Now, it's different. Mark is not a hero, he's not a good Samaritan. Most of the time he isn't even _nice_. So, of course, he wants to tell them to find someone else, fuck you very much, of course, he would love to meet the ones who thought up this project in the first place and happily bash their heads in. But he only grinds his teeth, pinches the bridge of his nose and lets it go.

The reminder that they can make him do pretty much whatever they want is unnecessary, and frankly a little petty. They know that watch duty is the one thing that Mark will hate doing, this is nothing more than another unsubtle attempt a trying to make him understand that they “own” him. (They don't, Mark will never let them.) But he goes with it. And, a couple of minutes later, when the sound of something being dropped into the mailbox echoes from the hall, Mark reminds himself that he cannot afford impulsive decisions anymore.

Mark sighs, gets up and starts getting ready. It doesn't take that long, and he soon finds himself seated in front of his laptop, a brown, official looking envelope in hand. He doesn't open it, despite the urge to read its contents. Tonight, when he's back and can take all the time he needs. Mark doesn't care about much, but he cares about that weekly envelope, so he sets it on his desk carefully and lets himself forget about it until he's back.

There is no new message waiting in his inbox, which is only slightly surprising. Chris again, then. He closes his inbox, opens the Internet browser, pokes around for a little while. They never really gave him access to most of the hidden part of the city council's website, but it's fine. From this side of the screen, it's a lot easier to hack into their database. The city is on a different network, but here, everyone uses the same and because they're dumb, it's full of flaws and so easy to penetrate that sometimes it makes Mark genuinely sad. Unfortunately, even what he manages to have access to is generally irrelevant. To the point that Mark often wonders if they haven't reverted to keeping all their most important and classified information strictly on paper, no digital copy. He wouldn't be surprised (maybe a little smug.)

When he hears a honk outside, Mark closes the laptop lid and walks out.

 

“Mark! Hey! Woah, second shift, how come? You were here eight hours ago,” is how Dustin greets him when Mark pushes the heavy door and steps in, eyes instantly drawn to the Wall.

“Hey. Dustin.”

Dustin flaps his hand in what Mark takes to be a friendly wave.

“Did you get enough sleep? You look sort of... rumpled,” Dustin eyes him with amused concern. “And grumpy.”

Mark stares for a beat. He'd almost forgotten about Dustin. The sight of him sprawled in the chair, looking up at Mark with that happy face of his makes Mark feel oddly better about being here. His lips curve into a tiny smile.

“You forget that I was already asleep eight hours ago when you arrived.”

“You were,” Dustin agrees, squinting his eyes at Mark in fake disapproval. (Mark supposes it's fake, it doesn't look very intimidating.) “Either way, good timing! Chris is having lunch with one of his neighbours, and then he has class until five, so he won't be home until at least five thirty.”

Mark makes a face that Dustin mirrors when he sees it. “Yeah, boring, I know.”

“Anything special that I should know or expect when he comes back?” Mark asks, glancing at the notepad by Dustin's elbow. The first page that Mark had started with his two line paragraph is filled with notes. From where Mark is, Dustin's handwriting looks like chicken scratches; having an oral summary might be good. Dustin shrugs and twists his features in a comical thoughtful expression.

“Umm, not really? He woke up, took a shower, had breakfast, studied for a couple of hours, and relocated to the couch to watch the discovery channel,” Dustin lists distractedly as he gets up and gathers his things. “He's weirdly enthusiastic about sharks, but that's about it?”

Mark nods, standing awkwardly near the door as Dustin gets ready to leave. “You should have brought a book, man.”

Mark should have brought his laptop. Chris' timetable is in the report he was sent yesterday but he hadn't bothered memorising it, didn't think he would need to.

“Alright, I'm off. See you later. Hopefully not in eight hours,” Dustin makes a face, casting an interrogative glance at Mark, who shakes his head in a tiny negative motion.

“I don't think you need to worry about that,” he replies wryly. “It was probably” _\--because it's me--_ “a mistake.”

Dustin shrugs, humming noncommittally. “Okay.” He gives Mark his wide, genuine grin and walks out, waving a hand behind him. “Bye.”

“Yeah.”

 

Fifteen pages of doodles, equations, useless lines of code, a nap, and a lonely game of battleship later, it's 17:42 and Chris comes home. Mark is so happy he moans his thanks at the screen showing him the front door. Then his brain catches up with him and he feels a little disgusted at himself. Whatever, this job is boring when your subject isn't there. Mark doesn't want to spy on anybody, but sitting on his ass doing nothing isn't exactly his idea of fun either.

Chris seems to be in a good mood. He's humming to himself as he puts his backpack by his desk and pads to the toilets. Mark tears off the pages of doodles from the notepad and writes _17:42 – home, looks happy_. Dustin's notes were pretty much a list of everything noticeable Chris had done on his watch, so Mark's going to do the same. How can it possibly be used, he has no idea, but it could be worse. They're mundane activities, it doesn't feel like a violation of privacy to collect those informations, they're just things that everybody does. It's stupid.

Chris walks to the kitchen after washing his hand, and pours himself a glass of orange juice that he sets down on his desk. He sits down, takes a couple of books out of his backpack and starts on his homework. Not wanting to suffer another period of boredom while Chris works, Mark peers at the control table until he finds what he's looking for. He selects the right camera and presses the button, zooming in on Chris's desk until he can read the book Chris is working on. He's already on page 63, the margins are full of handwritten annotations and Mark can see colourful post-its notes sticking out between the pages, but he starts reading anyway.

Chris is a fast reader. Even stopping to jolt down a couple of sentences from time to time and going back a few pages to check something, Mark is rarely left waiting for him to turn the page. It's oddly pleasant. Mark feels less like he's spying on an unsuspecting stranger, and more like they're hanging out and he's reading over Chris's shoulder because Chris is one of those person who don't mind people doing that (Mark hates it.)

At 18:57, Chris closes the book, stretches, and walks to the kitchen where he opens the fridge to stare pensively at its contents. Mark zooms out, distractedly following Chris' movements. It turns out that Chris is an amazing cook, which leaves Mark entirely nonplussed. The sight of his perfectly made chilli makes his stomach growl, but Mark stubbornly ignores it. Sure, it was obvious from his report that Chris Hughes was one of those poster boy, but. Really? He's twenty and he _cooks_ dinner when he's by himself? If Mark was willing to spare the energy, he'd feel slightly offended. Yet, as he watches Chris dig in, watches him break into a boyish grin as if eating this chilli is the best thing ever, Mark cannot help smiling, shaking his head in disbelief.

Chris might be a little ridiculous, but he's an okay guy. Not that Mark cares, but, yeah, he's okay.

At 21:00, someone pushes the door open. It's not Dustin. Mark gets up and leaves without a word.

 

-

 

Mark has been good this week. He hasn't done anything remotely unusual and certainly nothing that could be considered against the rules. He has been careful and (mostly) obedient for a while now, so he's not exactly worried. The last time something happened was about a year ago. Still, he has to try twice to open the envelope, fingers weak and shaking with apprehension, just like they are every week.

He slips the file out and his eyes stop on the front page for a second. The words on it are the same every time, the date is the only thing that differ. Yet, they always catch his eyes and always make him go numb. Even after two years, it's like he still cannot decide how they make him feel.

 

 

 

> **ACTIVITY REPORT**  
>  **ZONE 4**
> 
> KAREN ZUCKERBERG - subject n°19540310.4312-Z.K  
>  EDWARD ZUCKERBERG - subject n°19490407.4312-Z.E
> 
> 2003.11.13 to 2003.11.20

 

Mark swallows, opens the file and starts reading.

When he sets it down two hours later, he only hurts a little.

They're okay. Mark has been good, nothing happened. They're safe.

 

He spends the rest of his evening carefully not thinking about the idea that has started forming in his head. For a couple of hours, he checks all the settings on his laptop, just as a precaution, just to be sure. Once he is satisfied, he goes to bed. He isn't tired, but his brain has work to do.

 

-

 

The next day goes pretty much the same way, with a few exceptions. Mark is up long before the little lady needs to wake him, so, at 11:30, after the music stops, no voice follows, just written instructions in bold green letters: presence required at 13:00, car will pick you up at 12:40, etc. Mark glances at the screen for a second and resumes typing.

Sleep always help his ideas grow, and he has a fairly solid image of what he wants now, but he doesn't want to rush it. So he types, fingers flying carefully over the keyboard, his eyes never leaving the laptop screen to catch any mistake he might make. He will need lines and lines of code, but also lines and lines of contents once the code is finished, and none of it can contain even the tiniest mistake.

When 12:40 comes, Mark is already waiting outside, backpack thrown over his shoulder, the weight of his laptop comfortable and familiar against his arm. Chris has a study group session every Saturday from 15:00 to 16:30 and Mark refuses to spend another minute playing battleship against himself. He has work to do, anyway.

He half expects the person he's taking over for not to be Dustin, but it is, and he greets Mark with what is becoming a familiar grin.

“Hi, Dustin.”

Dustin waves before looking back at the Wall. “Hey, man.”

Chris is cleaning up the kitchen counter. There's a dirty plate, a couple of pans and other utensils in the sink. The sight of them is almost painful. “He cooked. Again,” Mark groans, appalled.

Dustin snickers. “And it looked amazing. I expressed my skepticism as to the reality of Mr Hughes' existence in my notes. I mean,” he says turning to Mark when Chris goes to the bathroom, closes the door behind him and starts to undress, “the guy's twenty, so roughly our age, right? I don't know about you, but I live off chicken sandwiches, and I only put salad in it when I want to be healthy, and that expensive mustard from the supermarket if I really want to make it special.”

Mark's face breaks into a grin. “Tuna cans,” he offers with a shrug. Dustin spreads his hands, nodding once emphatically.

“Shouldn't you be going?” Mark asks when Dustin makes no move to get up and leave despite his shift being over and Mark having arrived.

“Right!” Dustin says, jumping from the seat and collecting his jacket. “So, yeah, he hasn't done anything noteworthy except for the ridiculously fancy lunch.” Dustin shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips. “It's like he knows we're watching and he wants to impress us.”

Mark's lingering grin slides right off his face and he would have taken three steps back and away from Dustin right this second if his body wasn't frozen. He stares at Dustin, the average brown eyes, messy red hair, pale skin and lazy slouch, and an ugly suspicion creeps into his thoughts. He composes himself and pads to the control table without a word. He sits down, takes his laptop out of his backpack and waits for Dustin to leave. But Dustin doesn't.

“Oh,” he says, eyeing the laptop with interest. “You're working on something?”

Mark clenches his jaw, shoulders tense and spine going rigid. Dustin sounds earnest enough, and maybe he is. But maybe he isn't.

“No, I just don't want to get bored like yesterday.”

As Dustin keeps standing in the doorway, Mark adds, “I ended up playing battleship against myself,” and looks appropriately dismayed.

Dustin snorts. “Yeah, fair enough. Good luck, then.”

Mark waits for the door to close behind him to breathe.

He watches Chris until Chris leaves. While he's away, Mark works on his code. When Chris comes back, Mark watches him. He writes perfunctory observations in the notebook and, by the time his relief arrives, Mark has packed up and is ready to leave. Once home, he goes back to his coding.

 

Over the following days, Mark settles into a routine. As it turns out, this first shift might actually have been a mistake, because he is given the second shift of the day every day after that. He takes over for Dustin at 13:00, works until 21:00, is taken home, codes, sleeps and wakes up the next day to do it all over again.

Dustin doesn't ask any further questions when Mark keeps bringing his laptop. He doesn't apologise either, but he sticks to polite small talk for a while. He's still friendly, but not as familiar with Mark as he'd been from the start. Mark is both relieved and a little disappointed at the same time. He had genuinely liked Dustin, and while he's aware that he should be wary of other people here, it was only one offhand remark. He might be overreacting.

Still. Mark says hello when he arrives, goodbye when Dustin goes, and leaves it at that. If Dustin looks confused and even slightly hurt some days, it's okay. It's good, even. Mark really doesn't want Dustin to be one of them, but he needs to be careful, so he'll wait until he's sure.

Mark watches Chris, goes home, and codes. It's coming to him more easily than he would have thought given that he's learning at the same time, operating solely on a trial and error basis and the few things he picked up when he was still living with his parents. But then again, the motivating force behind his work is far greater than anything else he's ever felt before.

The first profile he completes is his father's. Mark stares at it when it's done and has to swallow hard at the thought that there are probably a lot of information still missing, things that he, his son, doesn't know, but _they_ do. He pushes it aside. The access codes from his former job at the archive are still active and valid, he checked. He'll have time to complete the profile later. He closes the preview, goes back to the code and starts his mother's profile.

 

One afternoon, when he arrives to take Dustin's place, Dustin greets him with a short nod and a somewhat worried smile. It's not aimed at Mark, though, and he knows he must keep his distance at least for a little while, but Mark still wants to ask what's wrong. It turns out he doesn't need to, because Dustin immediately asks if Mark would mind him staying.

“I mean, it's not that I don't trust you or anything, not at all,” he says quickly, glancing at Mark occasionally before frowning back at the Wall where Chris looks antsy. “It's just these douchebags, and.” He sighs, worry and weariness etched upon every line of his young face. “I know we can't interfere, and I won't, but I want to be there in case something happens.”

The admission costs him, Mark can see it in the way his posture is all forced casualness despite the concern clear on his face. Mark understands why he would try to play it down. This sort of speech is frowned upon. You are supposed to care for your subjects, sure, but personal attachment is a no-go. Dustin seems to have crossed that line, and he as good as admitted it.

Mark pauses. If Dustin is one of them, he could be trying to get onto Mark's good side or he could be testing him, forcing Mark to either let him stay and prove that he is not following the strict rules of being a watcher or kick him out and show that he is now an obedient little soldier. He's had his doubts about Dustin since that stupid comment, both theories are plausible. But there is also the possibility that Dustin truly is worried about Chris and that he just... trusts Mark.

When Mark stays silent for longer than needed to come up with an answer, Dustin sighs, musters a fake smile and gets up. “Right, okay,” he says lightly. “I don't really care, anyway, it was just in case-” But Mark doesn't let him finish. He closes the heavy door behind himself, locking them in.

“Don't come crying when your stomach rebels against the lack of chicken sandwiches,” he says as he pads to the other side of the room, sitting down on the floor, facing the Wall.

Dustin stares at him, unsure of what to do, and Mark is suddenly almost certain that if he wasn't sitting down, Dustin would hug him. To avoid any demonstration of the sort, he nods to the chair, letting Dustin know that he should sit down if he wants to keep an eye on Chris. Dustin smiles. It's a small thing, tinged with a hint of shame that has no reason to be there. He doesn't take the chair, though. He walks towards Mark and sits down next to him. Once settled, he turns to Mark and they look at each other in silence. There's a question there that neither knows how to ask, but when Dustin nods tentatively, Mark nods back and, as their eyes return to the Wall, Mark knows that they understand each other perfectly.

They watch as Chris locks himself up inside his house and works on his books, headphones on, facing away from the windows. They watch as a car full of frat boys stop right in front of the house, knocking down the outdoor trash can, garbage spilling on the grass along the driveway. They watch as one of the guys pisses on Chris' front door while the others throw eggs against the windows, yelling _fucking faggot_ , and _not man enough to come out and fight, eh?_.

Dustin and Mark are not sitting close to each other, but Mark can hear Dustin grinding his teeth, fingers tapping an erratic beat against his legs in a futile attempt to calm himself. They watch until one of Chris' neighbours comes out holding what looks dangerously like a shotgun and the jocks run back to the car, not without throwing a couple of insults at the man. Inside, Chris still has his headphones on but he's not working anymore. He's sitting completely still, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. He's not crying. He's not making any sound.

At 18:45, Chris makes himself a dinner so outrageously fancy and elaborate that Dustin and Mark share a weak but relieved laugh as they watch him chop and stir and pour. He makes enough for three, eats his part, and carefully stores the rest in the fridge. Only when he's done does he go outside. He walks around the house to try and gauge the damage and, without a sound, starts cleaning up. The same neighbour who chased the frat boys away comes to help him when he's halfway done. Chris thanks him with a bright and genuine smile. They work in companionable silence. At 20:03, the neighbour leaves, but only once he's accepted half of Chris' leftovers from dinner.

That evening, Mark codes Chris' profile. It's as biased as his parents'. Mark feels strangely proud.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dustin and Mark are okay after that. Sometimes Dustin stays during Mark's watch, sometimes he doesn't. Mark actually enjoys the afternoons when Dustin sticks around. Dustin is kind of a goofball, but he's also incredibly smart and he keeps up with Mark and even calls him out on his bullshit when he needs to. It's like. It's like having a friend all over again.

Chris has been left alone since that time with the frat boys, which is also a good thing. Dustin isn't subtle in his affection for him now that he knows there is no risk in admitting it out loud, and it's... nice. He often talks at the screens as if Chris could hear him, (on a few rare occasions, from inside his house, Chris does or says something that could be a direct reply to Dustin and it freaks them out every time, half-laughing, half-trying to calm their racing hearts,) and for a while, they can pretend they're just three friends hanging out.

(Then, Mark or Dustin will say that it's like playing a video game, and the tone is bitter, disgusted, because if this were a video game, they both know perfectly well what role Chris would fill.)

Mark often wonders how Dustin ended up here, in this line of work. He comes close to asking him a couple of times, but always decides against it. He hasn't told Dustin about his project or where he comes from, it wouldn't be fair to pry when he himself is still so guarded. And if he's dying to bring up thefacebook (that's what he's calling it, but it might change) sometimes, he refrains. He trusts Dustin, and they obviously agree on a lot of things in regards to their situation, but there's a whole world between being opposed to something and taking an active part in a project that seeks to destroy it.

It's less that Mark thinks Dustin would get scared and alert someone and more that he knows how much of a burden it can be. Mark has enough reasons to go on regardless of the risks and possible consequences for himself. Dustin doesn't. Mark cannot force it on him, however much he'd appreciate not being alone in this (however much he'd appreciate _Dustin_ being by his side.) So they spend hours and hours looking at the Wall, taking notes and being good boys.

 

 

Mark notices, a week in, that when he comes home in the evening the lock doesn't automatically shut behind him. It takes him by surprise, the sound so familiar that he isn't immediately able to place what is missing when he tosses his backpack carefully onto the couch. He tries the door, almost expecting it to be a trick and to have it stay closed, but it swings open easily. Mark stands on his front door, blinking at the darkening sky, and nobody is running towards him ready to push him back inside.

Huh.

The next morning, he wakes up without help and forgoes the usual bathroom trip to try the front door again. It opens again. He locks and unlocks it manually. No problem. Huh. Wow. No more little lady in the morning, no more curfew. Mark feels like a grown-up all of a sudden. There's probably a reason he's given so much liberty (the use of such a strong word has him fighting an incongruous urge to laugh), but he cannot think of a way this could be payback or yet another twisted attempt to punish him. The latest report on his parents was clean.

After more than two years, could it be that Mark Zuckerberg has finally stopped being the number one enemy?

He goes back inside, pads to the bathroom, takes a piss, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth. He's staring blankly at his reflection when he thinks about thefacebook and bursts out laughing, spitting toothpaste all over the mirror. Ha. Talk about good timing.

 

 

“Marky Mark, my man! You're in a good mood.”

“Yes, Dustin, I'm afraid I am.”

“Your smiling face is a very scary face, I hope you didn't come across any children on the way here.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yes, sir. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

 

 

Mark takes to going for walks at night. He has to literally tear himself away from his laptop and there's not much to see outside at two in the morning, but he goes anyway. Because he can. It can be 22:23, 00:45, 3:13, it doesn't matter. Mark can open the door, walk out, stay out for as long as he likes and walk back in, and nobody gives a shit anymore. It feels fucking fantastic. He had never realised how cautious he was, how careful and wary of his own actions he'd been all this time. The screens embedded in the walls of his flat are still there, of course, but they only show written messages now. No face, no voice, no horrible purple cardigan. No eyes.

Mark takes the time to walk around his neighbourhood for the first time. He goes grocery shopping and the guy at the cash register isn't necessarily as nice to him as he is to the other customers, but he doesn't give him the stink eye either. He walks past people who sort of nod at him in acknowledgment instead of throwing him a dirty glare. It's. Wow. It's like the whole city got a memo explicitly stating that Mark Zuckerberg is to be treated like a normal human being. It's a little ridiculous, really. Sometimes, between here and before, Mark has trouble deciding which one is real and which one isn't.

He tries to take it in stride, doesn't let either disdain or smugness show on his face when he's out, even manages the expected sheepish and slightly repentant smile if he happens to bump into someone he used to work with. Then he goes home, keeps working on thefacebook and hopes they're feeling good and magnanimous now, because it won't last.

 

 

“We should exchange phone numbers,” Dustin says, munching on a sandwich.

“....what for?”

“Rude.”

Mark shrugs. It's 13:47, Dustin had dragged a chair from the dining room before Mark even arrived and is eating his second chicken sandwich. Chris has a sort-of-date today, which Dustin couldn't possibly miss. (“You don't understand, Mark,” he says when Mark asks why it's so important for him to watch Chris leave the house and come back a few hours later. “You know we won't see what happens on the actual date, right?” Mark says, confused. Dustin waves a dismissive hand at him. “It will be written all over his face when he comes back because Chris is a regular human being with proper, functioning muscles in his face, not like you.”)

“I don't have a phone,” he says as Dustin takes out a small mobile phone from his pocket.

“Well, not your mobile if you don't want to,” Dustin replies easily.

“No,” Mark says, “I don't have a phone. At all. I don't have a mobile and I don't have a house phone either.”

Dustin stares at him, eyes wide. “Seriously? How do you communicate with your friends?”

And oh, okay, that one hurts a little. Not because Mark doesn't have any friends, but because how do you explain to someone like _Dustin_ that you are that person, the one who doesn't have friends, without him wanting the full story about why and how and _why_. Which are legitimate questions, but in Mark's case would inevitably lead to awkward revelations that he's not ready to make yet. “I'm actually more of a prisoner here,” doesn't strike Mark as a particularly good conversation starter.

“Emails,” he mumbles, and Dustin shakes his head in mock disappointment. He's seen Mark with his laptop enough to accept the answer without pressing the issue. So they exchange emails instead (and Mark soon discovers his inbox storage space limit, but he doesn't mind.)

 

Mark does end up getting a phone, though, a couple of days later. He'd never thought about it partly because he had no use for it and partly because he knew he'd never be allowed to get one, anyway. But now, with all the recent developments, he's curious. He doubts his contacts list will contain more than Dustin's number, but it's more of a test than anything, really.

Would they give him a phone?

They would. They do. It's surprisingly easy. Mark walks into a store that sells phones, asks for a phone (“Something cheap,”) and the salesman finds him exactly what he wants. It takes less than ten minutes. Mark is amazed. As he's about to leave with his new gadget in hand, though, the salesman calls after Mark.

“Mr Zuckerberg,” he says, walking towards Mark until they're standing very close together. Mark takes a step back, the man glances at him, seeming to hesitate before he says “I'm sure you are aware that I will have to notify... certain persons about your purchase today,” and, okay, Mark wasn't expecting that. Or rather, he was, but he wasn't expecting to be told about it. He frowns. “But,” the guy continues, voice low, “unfortunately, I forgot to activate the GPS and message tracer. I trust you will turn both those options on yourself as soon as you get home.”

Mark stares, in shock. He's not necessarily very good at subtlety, but that. Well. “What. Who are you?”he asks, tripping over the words. _What are you trying to say, why are you helping me._

“It's a small town and my wife is a watcher,” the man replies steadily. “I don't know what happened exactly, and I don't care. You've been here long enough, and you've paid for something that was never your fault to begin with.” He stares at Mark for a second before nodding to himself, taking a step back and saying, louder, “Enjoy your purchase, Mr Zuckerberg.”

Mark blinks at him dumbly, unable to find a proper response and shuffles out of the store, fingers tight around the phone.

Well. Fuck.

That night, he works on thefacebook until he falls asleep on the keyboard.

 

 

Chris gets another date with the same guy, Thomas. Dustin is so proud Mark has to remind him that he is not, in fact, Chris' mother watching her first son on his way to prom. He is royally ignored. It's a dinner date this time, so they watch Chris change his outfit twice, change his hairstyle three times, try to play it cool and watch TV for ten minutes like he isn't nervous at all, change his outfit again, rinse and repeat. Mark catches Dustin cooing at the screens more than once, it is unsettling.

Mark has never been on an actual date, always thought of it more as hanging out with added making out and groping so he is no expert, but he doesn't understand why Chris has to be so nervous. It's not even a first date.

“But he likes Thomas! _Likes_ him,” Dustin exclaims, appalled by Mark's blank stare and lack of understanding. “So he wants to be at his best.”

“Chris is great, he doesn't need all of that to be at his best,” Mark mutters, slouching further in his chair. Dustin throws him a suspiciously awed smile and blinks at him, eyes wide. Mark expects some kind of dumb retort, but Dustin simply turns back to the screens, sporting the most self-satisfied grin Mark's ever seen. He doesn't get Dustin sometimes.

The desire to tell him about thefacebook is stronger every day. Some days, Mark has to avoid talking altogether, because he knows it would be the only thing he'd talk about. Not now, not yet, he tells himself repeatedly. Dustin doesn't have his baggage, doesn't have his motivation, Mark cannot just dump that on him and expect him to be okay with it.

Thomas picks Chris up at 19:29. They won't be back before Mark's shift is over. Dustin sighs.

“I got a phone,” Mark says then.

“Yeah?” Dustin beams. “Awesome! Number, buddy.”

They exchange numbers. At 21:00, Dustin offers to drive Mark home. “It can be our own date!” he says. “You're an idiot,” Mark says. Dustin drives him home. Mark very pointedly does not invite him in for a last drink, Dustin punches his arm and drives away. Mark is still grinning when he sits down at his desk ten minutes later.

 

Chris and Thomas start having dates on a semi-regular basis. Sometimes they go out, sometimes Thomas comes over and they watch a movie and make out, which is extremely awkward for Mark and Dustin (who insists on staying even when Mark reminds him that he doesn't have to, “It's my shift, Dustin, no one is forcing you to stay so stop making agonising noises, or look away for fuck's sake.”)

Thomas is a nice enough guy. He's a little boring but he's smart so it evens out, Mark supposes. “He's _handsome_ ,” Dustin points out with an overly lecherous smirk. Whatever. He's got eyes and a nose and a mouth, Mark doesn't see what the big deal is.

And maybe Mark should have expected it, in the dark, disillusioned corner of his mind where his hopes and innocence lie broken and trampled all over, maybe he should have known that it would go to shit sooner or later.

 

Chris comes home from lunch one afternoon. He's on the phone, not paying attention to where he's going but it's okay, he's almost home, Mark and Dustin can see him already. Then the car pulls up. The same as last time. And the same frat boys come out. And they don't throw eggs at the windows this time. They throw punches at Chris.

For a brief, very brief second, Mark experiences this strange sensation of complete detachment. He blinks at the scene, takes it in, and glances at the clock. _14:44_ , he thinks, completely calm, _assaulted on his way home, probable serious physical injuries._ Then he blinks again and it sinks in.

Chris is getting beat up.

There's five of them and only one of him and they call him a pussy because he cannot fight back. Mark suddenly wants to break things. “FUCK,” Dustin yells next to him. Mark jumps. “THESE ASSHOLES. I knew they'd-- Fuck.” He looks livid. His usually relaxed and amicable face is set in an expression of pure fury, eyes sharp and dark in the blueish glow of the screens. His shoulders are tense and his whole body locked defensively, as if bracing himself for blows that aren't meant for him.

I can't interfere, Mark thinks frenetically as he hears bones cracking hard against flesh, choked screams, sneering and insults. I can't, I can't-- But Chris falls to the ground and Mark's hand is moving toward the control panel of its own volition and he's not sure he wants to stop it. Or, rather, he knows he doesn't want to stop it but that he _has_ to. He cannot risk screwing up now. No curfew, no locks, no little lady, a fucking _untraced_ cell phone. Chris is on the floor and they're kicking him, all fucking five of them. Mark's stomach lurches but he steels himself. He has relative freedom and thefacebook. There's no way he's giving that up.

He takes a slow step back from the Wall, but just as he does Dustin steps forward, hand outstretched. Mark immediately grabs his wrist in a painful grip. “Don't,” he hisses sharply. “You shouldn't even be here, don't you fucking _dare_.” The eyes Dustin turn on him are murderous, but he doesn't shake Mark off, doesn't even try to. They stand there, watching as Chris stops moving, stop making sounds except for the occasional ragged gasp. It seems to take ages before the guys finally get bored and leave Chris' bruised and bleeding body lying on the grass like a discarded toy.

14:53 reads the clock. Not even ten minutes.

Only when the car has disappeared from the Wall does Mark let go of Dustin's wrist. There are red marks on the skin around the bone but Dustin doesn't seem to notice. For moment, they stand unmoving, wrapped in the heavy silence that follows the attack. Dustin is perfectly still, and Mark sees him slowly regaining his composure and making a disturbingly good job of it. But when he speaks, the tone of his voice is enough to shatter the illusion. “Why?” he seethes.

Mark swallows. Because it's against the rules? Because that's not what we're here for? It's too late for this sort of bullshit to work anymore. The only question Mark needs to find an answer to right now is whether he trusts Dustin or not. Dustin, who flinches visibly as Chris starts picking himself up and watches him limp to the front door, hands twitching at his sides as if dying to reach out and help steady him. Dustin who maybe, maybe could understand now.

So Mark turns back to the Wall, closes his eyes and silently counts backward from ten, and says, “I'm working on something.”

Dustin takes his eyes off the screens to stare at Mark, several expressions flickering on his face. But even when he seems to understand what Mark is implying, there is no triumph in his eyes, no joy, only resignation and grim determination. So when he says, voice trembling with anger and a sliver of fear, “Tell me,” Mark tells him.

 

“I'm in,” is all Dustin says.

 

-

 

Before Mark knows it, it's been three months. Chris is safe again, Dustin calls him at the most random times to share improbable yet absurdly smart thoughts, thefacebook has a grand total of one hundred and thirty complete profiles and sixty more in progress, and for the first time in two years, Mark finally feels that that he's in control again.

So, naturally, that's when the fat little lady resurfaces.

 

_Good morning, Mr Zuckerberg, and congratulations! You have been promoted!_

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

_“How long has it been?”_

_“More than four months, sir.”_

_“And how did it go with Hughes? Did he take the bait?”_

_“Zero interference and no activity from the control panel the day of the assault, sir.”_

_“Ah! Good boy. Well then, I think it's time to give him someone.”_

_“Are you sure, sir? He is known to be a problematic subject, it's a big responsibility.”_

_“Positive, my dear. We chose Hughes very carefully, remember? And what happened? Nothing! The boy is ours. Who do we have?”_

_“Billy Olson, Katy Rippey, Eduardo Saverin, and Miranda Wood.”_

_“Hmm, Eduardo, where does he come from? That's the Brazilian, isn't it?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Oh, diversity! That's good, that's really good. Give him Saverin.”_

_“Very well, sir.”_

_“Do we have someone who has an issue with Latin Americans? Open intolerance could be good, but a closet racist would give more results. What do you think, dear?”_

_“We have a Mrs Margery Griffing, sir.”_

_“Location?”_

_“Zone 1, sector 4.”_

_“Brilliant! Any available house in the area? The closer the better.”_

_“None, sir.”_

_“Well, it doesn't really matter, we can change that as we like. Alright, I'd say we're set.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“Yes, dear?”_

_“Zone 1, sector 4 would put Saverin within four kilometres of Mark Zuckerberg's new location.”_

_“Oh sweetheart, as if that was going to make any difference.”_

 

* * *

* * *

 

**END PART I**


End file.
